'-; 






EUTHANASY; 



HAPPY TALK 



TOWARDS THE END OF LIFE. 



By WILLIAM MOUNTFORD, 

AUTHOR OF ' • MARTYRIA, " "CHRISTIANITY THE DELIVERANCE OF THE 
SOUL AND ITS LIFE," &C, &C. 



SECOND EDITION, WITH ADDITIONS. 



BOSTON : 

WM. CROSBY AND H. P. NICHOLS, 

111 Washington Street. 

1850. 



Ma 

\S50 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1S50. by 

Vvu. Crosby and H. P. Nichols, 

in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts 



<3H2*g? 



CAMBRIDGE: 

STEREOTYPED AND PRINTED BY 

METCALF ASD COIPAJT, 

PRINTERS TO THE UNIVERSITY. 



PREFACE, 



This is not meant to be a work for the 
conversion of- persons who do not believe 
in a world to come, but rather it is in- 
tended to originate in the reader that at- 
mosphere of thought in which faith can 
live. 

There are pious men who find their faith 
failing them in some strange way, which 
they cannot account for. They are serious 
persons ; they live honorably and righteous- 
ly ; they keep all the commandments ; their 
path is that of the just ; and yet some- 
how to their eyes it shines less and less, 
and evermore it gets darker and darker, as 
though unto perfect night. 



IV PREFACE. 



There are Christians who worship ov* 
of the same book of prayers which their 
fathers used; who keep the same solemn 
seasons of humiliation and joy which they 
wondered at as children ; and who repeat 
the same creeds which they learned in their 
youth. And yet, in the anguish of their 
souls, they say every Sabbath, more and 
more bitterly, " Lord, I believe more and 
more feebly ; help thou mine unbelief." 

There are men who are now of little 
faith, and yet who once believed them- 
selves to be in a state of grace. They sing 
the same hymns they used to, but not with 
their old fervor. Their seasons of religious 
joy are rarer and shorter than they used 
to be. And their belief in immortality is 
becoming only a fitful persuasion, a Sun- 
day feeling, a transient mood. 

The world is another world than what 
these persons first learned to be pious in. 



PREFACE. V 

There are men who cannot read a sci- 
entific work, or peruse history as it is com- 
monly written, or acquaint themselves with 
modern literature in some of its more pop- 
ular volumes, or feel what the spirit of the 
age is, without being conscious of a weak- 
ening of their faith. 

Certainly there are some few men as pure 
in heart as most saints have been, who long 
to see, and yet cannot see, in the world 
that now is, any signs of there being a world 
which is to come. They would be will- 
ing to sell all that they have and give to 
the poor, if they could be told of a way, 
by following which they could find them- 
selves within hearing of Christ, and per- 
suaded of there being treasure possible for 
them in heaven. * 

This present age is an epoch in the Chris- 
tian Church ; — very important, and perhaps 
what may yet be very sad. 



VI PREFACE. 



The purpose of this book is to aid per- 
sons to discern the religiousness of life, and 
to suggest to them that Christian faith can- 
not only live, but strengthen, in the world 
as it now is, though it is becoming light 
with science, and is altered in many a do- 
main of thought, and has sounding in it 
voices which ought to be religious, but which 
unfortunately are not. 



CONTENTS. 



CHAPTER I. 

PAGE 

On Old Age — The State of Religion. — On Affliction 1 

CHAPTER IT. 

Trust in the Mysteriousness of Life . . . . 19 

CHAPTER ni. 

The Hopefulness of Spring-time. — The Death of Birds 
and Flowers. — On. Prayer. — The Hope of Immor- 
tality 28 

CHAPTER IV. 

The Dread of becoming afraid of Death. — Death as Nat- 
ural as Life 37 

CHAPTER V. 

On Faith in a Future Life, and how to increase it . 47 

CHAPTER VI. 
On Resignation 57 



V1U CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER VII. 
A Dream 62 

CHAPTER Vm. 

On living in the Thought of Mortality. — Death a New 
Birth 70 

CHAPTER IX. 

On some Unfinished "Works of Genius . . . 77 

CHAPTER X. 
On Despondency 90 

CHAPTER XT. 
The Soul consciously immortal 95 

CHAPTER XH. 

Recollections and Thoughts on a Birthday . . . 101 

chapter xrn. 

Death to be waited for in Eaith 118 

CHAPTER XIV. 

On Remembrances of Youth, Pain, Pleasure, and Depart- 
ed Friends. — On Old Age. — Anticipations of Heaven. 
— Listening to the Past 122 

CHAPTER XV. 

Misfortune a Test of Character. — Uses of Old Age . 135 

CHAPTER XVI. 
A Sermon . . . 143 



CONTENTS. IX 

CHAPTER XVII. 
On Poverty. — Posthumous Influence. — Life after Death 164 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

On Knowledge of Human Nature. — Shakspeare. — Ever- 
lastingness of Truth. — Heirship of the Past . . 176 

CHAPTER XIX. 

On Flowers and on Beauty. — York Minster. — God in 
Nature. — The Witness of the Spirit. — The Feeling of 
Infinity 195 

CHAPTER XX. 

The Swiftness of Time. — On Heaven. — The Vastness 
of the Universe. — Knowledge proportioned to Duty. — 
The Wisdom of Humility. — The Will of God. — On 

I George Herbert 209 

CHAPTER XXI. 
The Uncertainty of Life 226 

CHAPTER XXII. 
On the Feeling of Beauty 229 

CHAPTER XXni. 

Plotinus. — George Fox. — Henry More. — The Song of 
the Soul. — Gratitude to Great Authors . . . 240 

CHAPTER XXIV. 

Human Greatness. — Humility. — God in the Soul. — Na- 
ture and the Soul. — Faith in Christ. — Religious Mel- 
ancholy 262 



X CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER XXV. 

The World full of Promise. — Man made for Happiness. 
— On Sympathy with Others. — What Heaven will be 281 

CHAPTER XXVI. 

One Spirit in Men. — One Meaning of Heroic Lives. — 
On Art. — On Civilized Life. — The Human Hand. — 
The Present Life suggestive of the Next . . .291 

CHAPTER XXVII. 

On Action. — The Way of Providence in Life . . 307 

CHAPTER XXVIII. 

On Creation. — The Law of Progression. — Man the In- 
finity of God's Purpose in the World . . .317 

CHAPTER XXIX. 

■ 
The End of Summer. — Perfect Love. — Hope of Immor- 
tality. — On Spiritual Longing .... 332 

CHAPTER XXX. 

Dying daily. — Changes of Eeeling. — Old Age. — On 
Affliction 342 

CHAPTER XXXI. 

Patience. — Readiness for Heaven. — Immortality . 358 

CHAPTER XXXII. 

The Effects of Prayer. — How to grow in Faith. — En- 
durance and Forgiveness. — Righteous Failures. — The 
Good of Affliction. — On Sincerity. — On Troubles. — 
On Music. — The Thought of God. — The Instinct of 
Prayer. — The Wonder of this Present Life . . 3G5 



CONTENTS. XI 

CHAPTER XXXIII. 

On Embalming. — Right Thoughts about the Dead. — On 
Bodily Changes. — Spirit its own Evidence. — How the 
Body lives. — On Burial 389 

CHAPTER XXXIV. 

On Epitaphs. — How some Men have wished to die . 398 

CHAPTER XXXV. 

The Last Vision of Tasso 408 

CHAPTER XXXVI. 

Nature in Autumn. — A City renewing its Population. — 
Thoughts of Ancient Times. — Another Life in Justice 
to this. — The Witness of the Spirit. — Faith in God. 
— Expectation of Death . . . . . . 431 

CHAPTER XXXVH. 

On Nature and Man. — On Memory .... 449 

CHAPTER XXXVIH. 

Human Evanescence. — The Stars. — Mysteriousness of 
Life. — God in Nature 463 

CHAPTER XXXIX. 

A Scene revisited. — A fine Day. — On Old Age . 475 

CHAPTER XL. 

On the Love of Life. — On Virtue and Vice . . 484 

CHAPTER XLI. 

Seven Conclusions from a Week of Sad Evenings . 491 



Xll CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER XLII. 
Thoughts while in Pain 494 

CHAPTER XLin. 

The Manifold World. — On Fitness for Heaven. — The 
Recognition of Eriends hereafter. — Kindred to the 
Blessed Great 501 



EUTHANASY. 



CHAPTER I. 

A soul by force of sorrows high 

Uplifted to the purest sky 

Of undisturbed humanity. — Wordsworth. 

There never lived a mortal, who bent 
His appetite beyond his natural sphere. 
But starved and died. — Keats. 

May you never 
Regret those hours which make the mind, if they 
Unmake the body ; for the sooner we 
Are fit to be all mind, the better. Blest 
Is he whose heart is the home of the great dead, 
And their great thoughts. — Bailey. 

MARHAM. 

Now, Oliver, you are settled with me, to live 
with me as long as I live myself. And that 
is your side of the fireplace, and that is your 
chair. And a comfortable room this library is ; 
is it not ? There shall be a sofa brought into it, 
and every thing else that will be for your com- 
fort shall be got. And here will we wait till our 
change come, for many, many pleasant hours,. I 
1 



a EUTHANASY. 

hope. For me, Oliver, it is a happiness to see 
you so resigned. And to hear you talk does me 
good. But it is of little use my company can 
be to you. I am old, and I am older than my 
years, I think. I am not the man I was once. 
Still, I am not declining into second childhood 
yet, I hope. 

AUBIN. 

No, uncle, you are not, and never are to be, I 
hope ; though, if you were, it would not be a 
thing to be mourned for, dear uncle, would it ? 
For the second childhood of a saint is the early 
infancy of a happy immortality, as we believe. 

MARHAM. 

What you say does cheer me so, Oliver ! 
But, indeed, I am often distressed at being so 
useless in my old age. 

AUBIN. 

Useless ! You are of great use, uncle Ste- 
phen, you really are. How are you useful ? By 
being a man that is old. Your old age is a pub- 
lic good. It is, indeed. For out of all the boys 
and girls, and young men and women of this 
neighbourhood, probably not ten, and perhaps not 
even one, will ever be as old as you. But some- 
thing of the good of old age they may all get, 
through sympathy with you.. No child ever lis- 
tens to your talk without having a good done it 
that no schooling could do. When you are walk- 



EUTHANASY. 3 

ing, no one ever opens a gate for you to pass 
through, and no one ever honors you with any 
kind of help, without being himself the better 
for what he does ; for fellow-feeling with you 
ripens his soul for him. At the longest, I cannot 
have long to live ; and I shall never be old. 
But through living with you, uncle, and loving 
you, I hope to understand, and feel, and make 
my own, those changes which come over the 
soul with length of life. 

MARHAM. 

When the powers of the body fail, the feelings 
do alter much ; and with me they grow melan- 
choly, which, perhaps, they should not do. But 
they are sad experiences, when sight and hearing 
and motion fail. 

AUBIN. 

Not sad, uncle Stephen, but serious ; and not 
so serious as solemn. Is your eyesight dimmer ? 
Then the world is seen by you in a cathedral 
light. Is your hearing duller ? Then it is just 
as though you were always where loud voices 
and footsteps ought not to be heard. Is your 
temper not as merry as it was once ? Then it is 
more solemn ; so that round you the common 
atmosphere feels like that of the house of the 
Lord. Yes, for twilight and silence and solem- 
nity, old age makes us like daily dwellers in the 
house of the Lord ; and a mortal sickness does 



4 EUTHANASY. 

this, sometimes, as well as old age. But it is our 
own thoughts that have to supply the service, 
and our own hearts that have to make the music 
triumphant, or else like a dirge. And the ser- 
mon is preached to us by conscience from some 
text taken out of the book of our remembrance. 
While to it all, Amen has to be said by our- 
selves ; and when it is said gladly, then there 
is an echo to it in heaven, and joy among the 
angels. 

MAR.HAM. 

You are so at home in religion, Oliver ! And 
that is why your talk pleases me so much, I think. 
For with most persons, it is as though they had 
forced themselves to be religious. 

ATJBIN. 

At present, in men's minds, religion is not as 
spontaneous as poetry is ; and, indeed, is not 
genial at all. 

MARHAM. 

And in this room are books which are weary 
reading to us, but which, a hundred years ago, 
our forefathers wept over, and prayed upon, and 
thanked God for. 

ATJBIN. 

We cannot feel as they did, because we do 
not think as they thought. Once, men thought 
themselves to be the only creatures in a state of 
probation ; and this little earth was fancied to be 



EIJTHANASY. O 

almost the only spot, excepting hell, that was not 
heaven. From astronomy, we know this to have 
been an error. And many, very many things 
which our forefathers were sure of one way, in 
science and philosophy, we are sure of otherwise. 
And so, under these errors, what they said and 
wrote religiously is either lower than our feel- 
ing, or else beside it. But some time religion 
will be familiar to men again, although we have 
got among different circumstances from what our 
fathers worshipped in ; for there is religion in all 
things, just as there is poetry, though as yet it 
is waiting to be discovered ; but when once it 
has been found, all persons will see it at last, 
and it will be natural to them. Immortality is 
not now believed in, commonly, in the manner 
it ought to be. The doctrine of it wants to be 
familiarized into feeling ; and especially, I think, 
there want to be developed such corroborations 
of the great truth as are latent in science, his- 
tory, philosophy, and in the fresh experiences 
which, as human beings, we are always passing 
through. The Greek Gospels require to be made 
English, for common use ; and for daily, homely 
feeling, the great doctrine of immortality wants 
familiarizing. 

MARHAM. 

You are hinting at what would be as great as a 
new Reformation in the Church. 



O EUTHANASY. 

AUBIN. 

And greater, I think. 

MARHAM. 

There is no chance of it, I am afraid. 

AUBIN. 

There was none of Luther, till he was born. 
Religion will be natural to men again ; and he 
that is merry will sing psalms yet. And even the 
soul is growing, perhaps, that is to bless the world 
this way. 

MARHAM. 

And it will be soon, we will hope, and with a 
welcome. 

AUBIN. 

That will not be ; for to bless the world im- 
plies being above it, and to be above the world 
is to have few or no friends in it. For the first 
of the earnest believers that are to be, we will 
wish some likely thing, and what they will want ; 
we will wish them courage to speak on, though 
it seem to be to the winds, and courage enough 
to think of dying in a garret at last, without being 
frightened. 

MARHAM. 

I must hope the world is better than you think 
it, Oliver. Though your experience of it has 
been very disheartening. 

AUBIN. 

Nay, dear uncle, I was not thinking of myself 
at all. 



EUTHANASY. 7 

MARHAM. 

But, Oliver, I have been thinking of you, and 
what you had to bear. 

AUBIN. 

And which I am the better for. Yes, when I 
remember what I was, I am sure of my misfor- 
tunes having been messengers to me from God ; 
for they were so exactly suited to do for my char- 
acter what it wanted. 

MARHAM. 

And perhaps the greatest grace that came to 
you from God was willingness to know those 
messengers. 

ATJBIN. 

Poverty came to me, and she said, " I must 
dwell with thee." And while I held the door of 
my room half open, she was hideous and ragged, 
and her voice was hoarse. But when I said to 
her, " Thou art my sister," her face looked di- 
vinely thoughtful, and there was that in her voice 
which went to my heart, and she was ragged no 
longer, nor yet gay, but like the angels, whom 
God so clothes. And through looking into her 
eyes, my sight was cleared. And so I first saw 
the majesty of duty, and that beauty in virtue 
which is the reflection of the countenance of God. 
For, before this, my eyes could see only what 
coarse worth there is in medals, and stars, and 
crowns, and in such character as gets itself talked 
)f and apparelled in purple and fine linen. 



EITTHANASY. 
MARHAM. 



O Oliver ! 



AUBIN. 

I was ambitious, uncle, once ; very greatly so 
I was. And from my own knowledge, I know 
that pride is a fearful peril. I was a student, and 
truth was my business ; but now it seems to -me 
that I must have loved it basely, and for tha fame 
of stamping it with my own name. 

MARHAM. 

Hardly so, Oliver. I am sure you judge your- 
self not justly. For the love of fame is not al- 
ways lust of flattery, but something not unwise 
nor unhealthy. For fame is a great thing for a 
man ; it is silence for him, when he wants to 
speak ; it is a pulpit to preach from, more au- 
thoritative than an archbishop's throne ; and it is 
affectionate attention from a multitude of hearers. 
Badly ambitious I do not think you could have 
been. 

ATJBIN. 

My ardor was too much of a worldly fever, as 
I know by this ; that when, time after time, Dis- 
appointment stepped between me and my object, 
he was like ice to my heart. But now I can 
embrace him as a friend ; and I do hold him as a 
dear friend ; and I bless God for his having found 
me. Though latterly I have known him by anoth- 
er than the mournful name by which he is called 
on earth. 



EUTHANASY. 9 

MARHAM. 

You have been afflicted, and it is a happy thing 
for you to feel that it has been good for you. As 
human creatures, we have all of us to suffer, and 
to have some of our dearest plans spoiled. 

AUBIN. 

And it is well ; for if we could be half suffi- 
cient to ourselves, we should soon lose the secret 
sense of dependence upon God. We build our 
plans up about us, and so we shut out the sight 
of heaven, and very soon the thought of it, and 
we say to ourselves that we will be merry with 
the goods we shall have stored up with us. But 
some earthquake of Providence shakes our build- 
ing, and overhead it is unroofed, and the walls of 
it give way. And then there is heaven to be 
seen again, and infinity is open round us, and the 
dews of the Divine grace can fall on us again, 
and again we feel ourselves at the mercy of God, 
to be spared from cold, and storms, and enemies. 
And so, among the ruins of our pride, we grow 
to be loving children of the Most High, instead 
of worldly creatures. 

MARHAM. 

And you have felt that. But now you will be 
able to tell me all your experiences ; and you 
must, whenever they come into your mind. 

ATJBIN. 

For some time I have wished to write a book 



10 EUTHAXAST. 

on the immortality of the soul, and if I had been 
well enough, I should have done it ; for I think 
on that subject I could write as not many have 
done. I have been without a friend in the world. 
And that is a state in which a man knows wheth- 
er he believes in God or not ; for if he does, his 
soul craves God, in such a way as that almost 
he is seen in the clouds, and felt in the air and in 
the coming of thoughts into the mind. I have 
known the want of food, and, one whole winter, 
the want of warm clothing ; and I have known 
what it is to need medical help, and not to have 
it, because unable to pay for it. 

M ASSAM. 

Have you ? 

AUBIN. 

Yes, I have. And in such circumstances, I 
know that life looks quite another thing to what 
it does to a man at ease. 

MAEHAM. 

Poor Oliver ! life must have looked stern to 
you, very stern. 

AUSIN. 

For a while it did, and then it grew sublime ; 
for I saw God in it all. And, besides, there is 
in the soul an instinct of her having been made 
for a foreordained end, of her having been cre- 
ated for a special purpose, which only she her- 
self can answer, and not any one other out of a 



EUTHANASY. 11 

hundred million other souls. So the more lonely 
I was, and the poorer, and the more the pain in 
my forehead grew like the pressure of a crown of 
thorns, and the more I was an exception among 
men, so much the more I was persuaded of hav- 
ing a destiny of my own, and a peculiar one. 
And I said to myself, " What I am to be, I can 
suffer for, and I will." So as my lot in life grew 
strange, I had a trembling joy in it for the sake 
of what I thought must spiritually come of it. 
But, dear uncle! those tears, — I cannot bear 
them. Besides, I am happy now. And now our 
souls, yours and mine, have found one another. 

MARHAM. 

But to have suffered as you have, and been 
alone r 

ATJBIN. 

Lonely I never was ; indeed I was not. 

MARHAM. 

For God was with you. And I do believe he 
was. 

AUBIN. 

And so were the souls of many saints, and 
heroes, and noble thinkers, — men of like suffer- 
ings with my own. 

MARHAM. 

True saints and true heroes. But now, Oli- 
ver, tell me, were you never tempted to forego 
your scruples, and enter 



12 EUTHANAST. 

AUBIN. 

No, uncle, not for a moment. 

MARHAM. 

If you had flattered a little, or been less nobly 
scrupulous, your genius would have been ac- 
knowledged and well paid very soon. No doubt 
you felt this ; and was not it ever a temptation ? 

AUBIN. 

No, uncle. 

MARHAM. 

My noble boy ! And you sat down so long to 
poor food, and scanty, perhaps. 

AUBIN. 

But I ate it, like the sacrament, in a high com- 
munion of soul. For sometimes I felt as though 
there stood about me Tasso, and others like him. 
And I thought of one who was so holy, that 
priests could not understand him, and who was 
therefore so poor and unfriended, that he had not 
where to lay his head ; I thought of Christ in the 
wilderness, hungry and alone. 

MARHAM. 

And in that way you held faithful to your con- 
victions. 

AUBIN. 

Yes. 

MARHAM. 

And yet, — am I right, Oliver ? Surely I 
must be, for you are young still. And was not a 
home sometimes a hope with you ? 






EUTHANASY. 



13 



AUBIN. 

And so a temptation ? No, uncle. 

MARHAM. 

But with such prospects as I found you with, 
you must have been in dread of starvation, as not 
an unlikely thing for you some time. 

AUBIN. 

One while I had that, fear ; but I made an Ode 
to the Poor-house, and then I was not afraid of 
poverty any more. 

MARHAM. 

What do you mean ? 

AUBIN. 

And I was the better man, besides. I mean, 
that I made up my mind to die in rags and want, 
and then I was not afraid of doing so. And as 
soon as there was nothing in this world that could 
frighten me, at once, with ease of mind, goodness 
grew easier with me. 

MARHAM. 

Ease of mind ! But I think I can guess at 
what you mean. God became every thing to you, 
as the world grew nothing. 

AUBIN. 

But the world never did become nothing to 
me ; for always, even from the middle of a city, 
it felt great and wonderful about me ; but when 
no temporal good could come of it to me, then 
the eternal meaning of it entered my soul freshly 



14 EUTHANASY. 

every day. The more I felt the world was not 
mine at all, and could not be, the more blessedly 
I felt it was God's ; and so, another way, it was 
mine again, gloriously. 

MARHAM. 

And so the world was yours through not being 
yours, was it ? Your experience was like St. 
Paul's, — as having nothing, and possessing all 
things. Have you the Ode to the Poor-house 
which you wrote ? I should like to see it. 

AUBIN. 

I have not it, uncle. You think the writing of 
it a curious cure for poverty. 

MARHAM. 

But before writing it, your feeling of misery 
must have been abating. 

AUBIN. 

Yes. As soon as my poverty felt poetical, it 
ceased to be only wretched. But always I have 
found, that any thing bad is most bearable by 
knowing the worst of it, — by thinking, and feel- 
ing, and living it all over. 

MARHAM. 

And so draining the cup of sorrow at a manly 
draught. 

AUBIN. 

Many years ago, when my mother died, I was 
in an agony of grief till I saw her body and held 
her dead hand, and then I was calmed. I sup- 



EUTHANASY. 15 

pose the reason of it was this, that what we see 
with our eyes is seen at once to be finite ; and 
finite evil but serves by its endurance to quicken 
into intensity that presentiment of infinite good 
which has been made instinctive in us. 

MARHAM. 

To some persons, it is a satisfaction to know 
the worst, because it is never so bad as their 
fears ; and others, I think, like to know it, be- 
cause they are uneasy at any thing that is uncer- 
tain ; and others like to know it for other reasons, 
perhaps. 

AXJBIN. 

Perhaps so. But I would rather think that all 
these reasons have one source, and from it I 
would draw this truth, or, at least, some confir- 
mation of it, that the inner is the more real and 
the intenser world. While we have only heard 
of misfortune, we only know it as though spirit- 
ually ; and the unrestrained grief of the spirit, 
like the spirit itself, partakes of the infinite. But 
as soon as with our bodily eyes we see an evil, 
we see that it is finite, measurable, little. And 
then against this littleness the soul measures her 
own almost infinite power of endurance. And 
from this comes that complacency, that almost 
joy in misfortune, which some sufferers have 
felt, when once they have learned the worst 
of it. 



16 ETJTHANASY. 

MARHAM. 

Oliver ! I am proud of what you are, but 
over what you have been as a sufferer I could 
cry ; and yet I think I am proud of that too, for 
you are my sister's son. Oliver, you are not 
well, you look 

AUBIN. 

Uncle, one thing I have to ask of you, and 
that is, that you will not for a while ask me any 
thing about my past life. I can think it over on 
my knees, and be thankful to God for it ; but 
your pitying it is too much for me. For I have 
not been as manful as you think, or else my cour- 
age was only just enough. For now that I am 
out of my troubles, I could cry for hours some- 
times, though a month ago I could have said that 
I had not had a tear in my eyes for years. 

MARHAM. 

And now you are ill. O, very sorry I am 
that, — that 

AUBIN. 

That I should only have been helped out of 
my wretchedness just against my death. But bet- 
ter men than I will die in worse miseries than 
mine were. 

MARHAM. 

1 do not think so, Oliver, and I should be very 
sorry to believe it. For I have never heard of 
another instance like yours in all my life. For 



ETJTHANASY. 17 

opportunity to help a good man and a man of ge- 
nius is a treasure 

AUBIN. 

Which not many men are good enough to val- 
ue. But this is a thing which it is better not to 
say, even if quite true. And so I will not say it. 
For the soul gets embittered with saying bitter 
things. And then even good men may not find 
one another out, as I ought to remember from 
the way in which even you and I did not know 
one another for so long, and never should have 
done but for an accident, ■ — no, a providential 
event ; for so it was for me. 

MARHAM. 

And for me, too, Oliver. But you suffered so 
strangely ! Why, O, why did not I know of it, 
or guess it ? And why did I let my foolish prej- 
udices, — foolish and worse 

AUBIN. 

No, dear uncle, uncle Stephen ; do not talk so. 
But let our not knowing one another be among 
the strange things of the world, and they are very 
many. Why they are allowed, we cannot tell 
always. But they are wisely allowed, no doubt. 
Why, why is this ? But for any of us asking 
so, there is no special answer vouchsafed. The 
wheels of the universe do not stop for us to ex- 
amine their mechanism ; for if they did, there 
would be no progress ; because, at every moment, 
2 



18 E17THANASY. 

the self-will of some creature or other is in col- 
lision with that Divine will which is the main- 
spring of creation. 

MARHAM. 

It does my heart good, and it does my soul 
good, to see you so happy, Oliver, and so at 
peace with the world, after having been so hardly 
used in it. 

AUBIN. 

It would be a shame if I were not so ; and the 
more I have suffered, the greater shame. Be- 
cause, with a Christian, at the end of a grievous 
trial, and when the soreness of it is abating, there 
is a strange and sublime experience. There is 
the feeling of sorrow, and there is that of infinite 
goodness ; and the two blend into a conscious- 
ness like that of having been just about to be 
spoken to by God. And this is not a deceptive 
feeling, though God is silent towards us all our 
lives ; for with him a thousand years are as one 
day ; and when he will justify himself to us, it 
will not be our fleshly impatience which he will 
address, but the calm estate of spirits everlasting 
like himself. 



EUTHANASY. 19 



CHAPTER II. 

The very spirits of a man prey upon the daily portion of bread and flesh ; 
and every meal is a rescue from one death, and lays up for another ; and 
the clock strikes, and reckons on our portion of eternity : we form our 
words with the breath of our nostrils, — we have the less to live upon for 
every word we speak. — Jeremy Taylor. 

All death in nature is birth, and in death appears visibly the advance- 
ment of life. There is no killing principle in nature, for nature through- 
out is life ; it is not death which kills, but the higher life, which, conceal- 
ed behind the other, begins to develop itself. Death and birth are but the 
struggle of life with itself to attain a higher form. — J. G. Fichte. 

MARHAM. 

Out of our hearts, and out of our reasons, 
many things are said to us about our immortality ; 
but they would not be listened to believingly, if it 
were not for our Christian courage. Christ said, 
that because he lives we shall live also. This is 
what emboldens our faith. 

AUBIN. 

Twice did Christ enter this world, and twice 
did he depart from it, and so the other world and 
this were made to feel the nigher. 

MARHAM. 

Twice, did you say, that Jesus came into this 
life ? 

AUBIN. 

Once through his mother's womb and his moth- 



20 EUTHANASY. 

er's cares, and once from withinside the grave of 
the Arimathean. To and fro, between this and 
the other world, Christ passed. So that to us 
believers this earth feels like the fore-court of 
heaven, and death like the door into eternity. 

MARHAM. 

At that door, threescore years and ten make 
a loud knocking for me ; and old age is like an 
anxious waiting for the door to open. And awful 
waiting it would be, were it not for Christ inside. 
But for him, it would be dreadful leaving this 
known for the unknown world. 

AUBIN. 

This known world, you say. But now, uncle, 
is it known ? No, it is not. It feels known, be- 
cause we feel foolishly. For every grain of sand 
is a mystery ; so is every daisy in summer, and 
so is every snow-flake in winter. Both upwards 
and downwards, and all round us, science and 
speculation pass into mystery at last. 

MARHAM. 

We will say, then, that this world is little 
known, and the other still less. 

AUBIN. 

Perhaps it is so. 

MARHAM. 

Why, Oliver, how can you say perhaps, 
though you were not sure ? 

AUBIN. 

Nay, but, uncle, how can I be sure ? 



EUTHANASY. 21 

MARHAM. 

Very easily, I should think ; as you have lived 
thirty years in this world, and into the other have 
never had one glance. 

AUBIN. 

But, dear uncle, I think I may have had. For 
I am of two worlds, matter and spirit. With 
these gray eyes I have never known the world of 
spirit, but known it I have through certain feel- 
ings, very faintly, and yet plainly, as I think. 

MARHAM. 

But still, as you say, very faintly. 

AUBIN. 

And very little, too, is my knowledge of this 
world. It is not unlikely, I think, on my dying, 
that the other world will feel as familiar to me as 
this does. For body and breathing, table, chair, 
and house, are unfelt, and are nothing to me, while 
I am in thought ; so that when I am in spirit they 
will not be much missed, perhaps. And then 
there are states of mind which will be as com- 
mon to me hereafter as here, and more so ; so 
that with them, at once, I shall be familiar. In 
prayer, the furniture of my room is forgotten, and 
praying hereafter in our Father's house, the fresh 
splendor of it will be forgotten. And I shall feel 
and be what I am now at times, but more purely, 
— a worshipper only. And other states of mind 
there will be, in which, at once, I shall feel as 



22 EUTHANASY. 

native to the world of spirits as I do to this world 
of earth. 

MARHAM. 

Still, death is a leaving of one world for another. 

AUBIN. 

So it is. And life is an outliving of world after 
world. Where is now what the world was to you 
at ten years old ? It is gone, gone for ever. And 
where is the world which you saw and felt, and 
which you hoped in, at twenty ? You are not in it 
now, and you never will be again, — never again. 

MARHAM. 

To my eyes it is the same world. 

AUBIN. 

But it is a very different world to your judg- 
ment and to your imagination, and to your heart. 
While sight is but one of our faculties, and in this 
instance the least sufficient one. For though the 
world looks to be in the same place which it was 
in fifty years ago, yet it is widely away from it, 
having gone along with the sun towards the con- 
stellation Hercules. 

MARHAM. 

O the depth of the wisdom of God, and his 
ways past finding out ! 

AUBIN. 

Yes, dear uncle. And that is the right mood 
for waiting death in. I mean, a trustful con- 
sciousness of the mystery of the universe. 



EUTHANASY. 23 

MAEHAM. 

The world of my boyhood, and that of my 
youth, and this of my old age, have been quite 
different from one another, and would have felt 
quite distinct, only that it was by little and little 
that the first changed into the second, and the 
second into the third. A third world am I living 
in ? Then the fourth, which waits me, is in a 
quite natural course. But it will be more sudden 
than the others. One moment, the soul is in this 
life, and the next, in another. 

AUBIN. 

So it is. But very often the soul outgrows 
this world before the other world opens above it. 
And in a last long sickness, many a Christian soul 
grows more akin to the great family in heaven 
than it ever was to fellow-creatures in this earth. 
And with an old man, shorter and shorter are his 
walks round home, and the cunning of his hand 
grows less and less ; dimmer and dimmer grow 
his eyes, and more and more dull his ears, and 
less and less of this earth he becomes, till at last 
he is not of this earth at all. 

MARHAM. 

I was young, but now I am old. This change 
I have lived through, and my next great change 
will be death. 

AUBIN. 

From manhood of thirty to old age of eighty 



24 EUTHANASY. 

seems a great change ; but in this present life, 
there is a change which is greater and more sud- 
den, and it is at the time when a youth first 
makes out what it is to be a man, and, instead of 
a dreamer, he has suddenly to be a doer and a 
sufferer. Often let a youth know himself to be a 
man, and then he will not shrink much from the 
thought of being an old man and a dying man. 
For he has known and outlived the greatest vicis- 
situde, when of a youth he became a man. Be- 
cause the world to come is not stranger than the 
reality of this world is to a young man, sometimes ; 
and for him to feel the strangeness of it, and part 
with his hopes and old feelings, is not less pain- 
ful, nay, is worse, than parting with the flesh. 
One way or another, we most of us have changes 
come over us that frighten us more than death, 
and at the first feeling of which we have every 
one of us said, perhaps, " Would God that I 
might die ! " These seasons it is well for us to 
remember and live over again. And we will do 
it. We shall have tears in our eyes the while, 
and a choking in our throats, perhaps. But our 
minds will be the better for such recollections, 
and our hearts will open the more earnestly into 
prayer. And when we feel how God was in our 
sorrows, we shall trust the more blessedly that he 
will be in our deaths. 



EUTHANASY. 25 

MAEHAM. 

And so he will be, and blessedly so, we will 
hope. For we cannot die without him, any more 
than be born. And now that we must die, we 
will think of the times when we would have died 
if we could. And L will think of them to make 
me the more resigned when I remember that I 
am old ; for old age is only a slow dying. 

AUBIN. 

Growing old is like bodily existence refining 
away into spiritual life. True, the ripeness of 
the soul is hidden in the decay of the body ; but 
so is many a ripe fruit in its husk. 

MARHAM. 

So strangely old age does alter us, Oliver. 

AUBIN. 

A man vain of his person may be dismayed 
by looking thoughtfully on the face of old age ; 
but, rightly looked at, there is to be read in every 
line of it the exhortation, " Be of good cheer." 
Only let us love God, and then all things of God's 
doing look lovely, and promise us good. To a 
good old man, his gray hair is a crown ; and it may 
be worn, and it ought to be, like what has been 
given as an earnest of the crown of immortality. 

MARHAM. 

Our hearts keep beating not by our wills, and 
our looks change by a will not our own, but one 
to be trusted in infinitely. 



EUTHANASY. 



Athens * 



AUBIN. 

A trustful heart never breaks ; it strengthens 
to the last. And to the last we will trust. God 
is almighty ; then all things are his mightiness, 
and all life is his will. With us, spring and sum- 
mer and autumn and winter shall be the will of 
God ; and the will of God shall be the wisdom of 
the starry courses. The vital nature of the air 
about us shall be the will of God ; and it shall be 
the will of God that we breathe without thinking. 
And to us joys shall be the will of God, and so 
shall pains and sorrows be. Providence is in all 
things, so that whatever we do not understand 
shall be to us nothing to be frightened about, but 
it shall be mystery and the will of God. And so, 
no less than birth, death shall be to us the will of 
God ; and in it we will rejoice always, though 
sometimes, perhaps, not without trembling. 

MAE.HAM. 

We neither live nor die to ourselves, and when 
we die, we die unto the Lord. This we will re- 
member, Oliver, and rejoice in. 

AUBIN. 

Yes, uncle. In joy and sorrow I will remem- 
ber what I am ; that I am more than flesh and 
blood, more than the weight of one hundred and 
ten pounds of earth ; that I am a creature of God, 
with the wisdom of God in my shape, and the 
goodness of God in my senses, and the provi- 



EUTHANASY. 



27 



dence of God in my life, from hour to hour. 
Yes, and more than a creature of God I am. I 
am a child of God. Some share in the Divine 
nature I have, and a larger share I am destined 
to. A little while, and then I shall be immor- 
tal. And what I am to be soon, cannot I almost 
feel as though I were ? Yes, I can. I will 
think more, then, of what I am to be, and less of 
what I am to be saved from. 

MARHAM. 

You mean 

ATJBIN. 

Day by day I am watched over by the loving 
eye of God. What unchangeableness there is in 
that Divine eye I will think of, and not so much 
of what change there grows in my own looks. 
Night by night I will lie down and sleep in the 
thought of God, and in the thought, too, that my 
waking may be in the bosom of the Father ; and 
some time it will be ; so I trust. 



28 ETJTHANASY. 



CHAPTER III. 

All that God owns, he constantly is healing, 

Quietly, gently, softly, but most surely ; — 

He helps the lowliest herb, with wounded stalk, 

To rise again. See ! from the heavens fly down 

All gentle powers to cure the blinded lamb ! 

Deep in the treasure-house of wealthy Nature, 

A ready instinct wakes and moves 

To clothe the naked sparrow in the nest, 

Or trim the plumage of an aged raven ; — 

Yea, in the slow decaying of a rose, 

God works as well as in the unfolding bud ; 

He works with gentleness unspeakable 

In death itself; a thousand times more careful 

Than even the mother, by her sick child watching. 

Leopold Schefer. 

ATJBIN. 

I could wish to die on a day like this. 

MARHAM. 

Oliver, you surprise me. You wish to die ! 

ATJBIN. 

No, dear uncle. But when I do die, I hope it 
will be on a day like this. 

MARHAM. 

Most others would think their feelings would 
be best composed for death in autumn. For 
then all things are dying round us, or are in har- 
mony with death, — flowers blackening to the 
ground, leaves falling from the trees, nights length- 



EUTHANASY. 29 

ening, and days less bright ; and in the air a mist, 
feeling like the presence of a pall. But why 
would you rather die in the spring ? 

AUBIN. 

On the first day of spring ? Because, at this 
time, the instinct of immortality feels strongest in 
me. Only a fortnight since, there was snow on 
the ground ; and it was still a time of great-coats, 
and neckerchiefs, and cautiousness, and numb- 
ness, and thick breathing. So suddenly out of 
winter, to-day does feel like newness of life. 

MARHAM. 

So it does. There is not a cloud in the sky ; 
and how warm it is, and how soft the air is ! I 
feel quite young again. 

AUBIN. 

You must feel more than that, uncle. For no 
young man, while he is well, ever feels as though 
he could die. But you, in your decay, have the 
feeling of youth ; therefore it is that of the youth 
of your immortality. It is the youth of the soul 
that one feels, on such a day as this. 

MARHAM. 

On such a day as this, then, the body 

AUBIN. 

With me, feels like a garment outgrown by the 
spirit. 

MARHAM. 

So, then, Oliver, you would rather die in the 
spring ? 



30 EUTHANASY. 

AUBIN. 

Yes, in hope, and in the season of hope. Now 
let us go into the garden, uncle. Shall we ? — 
See here, how fast these daffodils have grown. 
They will be in blossom next week, and the 
snowdrop not be out of flower. 

MAEHAM. 

So they will be, and they will soon be out 
again. Oliver, do you know Herrick's address to 
the daffodils ? 

We have short time to stay as you, 
We have as short a spring ; 
As quick a growth to meet decay 
As you or any thing. 

We die 
As your hours do, and dry 

Away, 
Like to the summer's rain, 
Or as the pearls of morning's dew, 
Ne'er to be found again. 

They are pretty lines, though rather pensive ; are 
they not, Oliver ? 

AUBIN. 

Yes, uncle. But I do not like flowers being 
made to smell of the grave. Besides, we do not 
die like daffodils ; or, if we do, it is in a way that 
Herrick did not mean. I shall die as the daffo- 
dils did last year. But see, here they are, the 
very same flowers, alive and growing again ! And 
I, — I shall live again, and everlastingly. 



EUTHANASY. 31 

MARHAM. 

Tulips, lilies, tiger-lilies, violets, blue-bells, 
hyacinths, — all are coming up. And here are 
primroses quite yellow with blossoms. Ay, how 
all the flowers are pushing themselves through 
what was as hard as ice a few days since ! 

ATJBIN. 

It is as though the dead earth were blossoming. 

MARHAM. 

Yes, but these stems, and leaves, and flowers 
have sprung out of roots. 

AUBIN. 

Well, so they have. But then those roots 
were formed out of the earth. And there is not 
a fibre of any one of them but was mould a little 
while since. Look at the honeysuckle ; it is in 
leaf; and so is the lilac, almost; and the goose- 
berry bushes are very nearly. The flowers draw 
nourishment out of the ground for themselves, 
and encouragement for us ; and in sight of a 
thinker, when they blossom, it is not only into 
beautiful colors, but into suggestions of immortal 
hope. O, no, no, no ! There is not all this 
abounding, teeming life in nature for us to see, 
and think of, and trust in, and then fail of. 

MARHAM. 

O these birds ! how joyously they do sing ! 
the blackbird, the lark, the hedge-sparrow, ay, 
and the bulfinch, and the robin. I remember, 



32 EUTHANASY. 

when I was a boy, a robin used to build in the 
garden gate-post. Three or four years he did ; 
and I suppose he died then. Birds, our English 
birds, most of them, and I suppose most birds, 
are very short-lived. Well, it is something to 
think of, that none of all these birds were what I 
listened to when I was a boy. 

AUBIN. 

Nor any of them birds that God fed at that 
time, and made a delight of in the world. 

MARHAM. 

Well, Oliver. 

AUBIN. 

I mean, that you ought to listen to the songs 
of these birds like a child of God, and not like 
one without hope. You said that the birds now 
are not what you listened to in your youth. And 
you said this mournfully ; — yes, uncle, you did ; 
— and so you well might, if you thought yourself 
made altogether as they are ; which you are not. 

MARHAM. 

No ; all flesh is not the same flesh, St. Paul 
says ; but there is one kind of flesh of men, and 
another of birds. 

AUBIN. 

And so you are not to feel, along with these 
birds, in such a way as though, like a bird, you 
were yourself only a little clay made alive. Birds 
do not live long ; but they do sing with rap- 
ture 



EUTHANASY. S3 

MARHAM. 

So they do. But an old man cannot but think 
how they will all be dead in a year or two, and 
he himself as well. 

AUBIN. 

One star differs from another star in glory, and 
one world from another world in character, most 
likely. And so it is not unlikely that into this 
world of mortality angels may be admitted by 
God as visitors ; and if so, no doubt it is to them 
a joy to see how in decay, and through it, the 
world renews itself, — how the dead leaves of au- 
tumn and the perishing trees of the forest do but 
deepen the mould, and make it productive of new 
and sometimes better trees, — and to hear how 
fresh and joyful the chorus of the woods always 
is. In the hearing of God, an undying song kept 
up by dying things. And we, — we will hear it 
like children of God, with our souls as well as 
with our mortal ears. Thoughts of mortality 
may be too much with us. And the birds were 
never meant to sing them to us. Rather it ought 
to be a joy to us, that God perfects for man such 
delight, and for himself such endless thanksgiv- 
ing, out of the throats of such frail things as birds. 

MARHAM. 

Thank you, Oliver, thank you. You will have 
your wish, as to your dying-time, I am almost 
sure. For you have years to live yet, I hope. 
3 



34 EUTHANASY. 

And a few Aprils lived like the last half-hour 
will make it be spring-time in your soul always. 

AUBIN. 

God grant it ! 

MARHAM. 

All that is good for our souls, God does grant ; 
and to have it, we have only to ask it. 

AUBIN. 

An undevout soul is like a tree in rich earth, 
but with perished roots. Such a tree may have 
the sun to warm it, and the dews to moisten its 
bark, and the breezes to blow through its branch- 
es ; and so it may maintain a show of life, but 
only a show. And the soul of a man may re- 
ceive into itself, through his eyes, all the objects 
of the world, and through his ears, the knowledge 
of all that has ever happened, and his mind be- 
come, at the best, not much better than a diction- 
ary of words, and a growing catalogue of things. 
Because, for knowledge to become wisdom, and 
for the soul to grow, the soul must be rooted in 
God ; and it is through prayer that there comes 
to us that which is the strength of our strength, 
and the virtue of our virtue, the Holy Spirit. 

MARHAM. 

And so we will pray often and heartily while 
we can ; for soon we shall be cut down. But 
we shall live again like these flowers. Yes ! I 
shall blossom again into beauty, withered as I 
look. 



ETJTHANASY. 3D 

AUBIN. 

Yes, uncle ; within your shrunk form there is 
what will spread itself into an angel, winged, and 
free of the heavens. And there is in you a swift- 
ness, that may some time make of worlds mere 
resting-places on a journey into infinity. But 
there is in you more than this ; for there is hid- 
den in you a likeness to the everlasting youth of 
the Son of God. 

MARHAM. 

Can these bones live ? Or can there be in 
them what will quicken into an immortal ? 
Lord God, thou knowest ! 

AUBIN. 

See this vine. It is merely dry sticks and 
ragged bark, to look at. Yet inside there is what 
will be, in August, gracefulness, and thick leaves, 
and a hundred bunches of grapes. Do I know 
this of the vine, and cannot I be sure that I know 
something like it of myself ? 

MARHAM. 

God makes these flowers what they are, and 
he will not forget us, nor fail us ; and we ought 
to feel this the more, the more we consider the 
flowers. 

AUBIN. 

From all God's works, the spirit of God is to 
be caught, if they are but looked at religiously. 
And by our dwelling devoutly in the world, our 



36 



EUTHANASY. 



souls will have in them the full meaning of the 
world. And then, die when we may, in foggy 
November, or in January and the middle of win- 
ter, there will be spring within our souls ; feelings 
of hope, caught from budding trees, and from the 
smell of the first violet, and the opening of the 
first rose, and from the March song of the lark, 
and the April return of the swallow from beyond 
the sea. And this hopefulness of nature we can- 
not give into too believingly. And in all things 
that we hope humbly, we shall be more than jus- 
tified by that "great hope which maketh not 
ashamed." 



EUTHANASY. 



CHAPTER IV. 



There is no danger to a man that knows 

What Life and Death is ; there 's not any law 

Exceeds his knowledge ; neither is it lawful 

That he should stoop to any other law. 

He goes before them, and commands them all, 

That to himself is a law rational. — George Chapman. 



MARHAM. 

Sometimes I shrink from expecting death ; 
but for long I do not. But, Oliver, as I grow 
older, I am afraid I may get to dread death. 

AUBIN. 

Uncle, you must not be afraid at all ; neither 
of death, nor of the fear of death. For if you are 
afraid of fearing death, you will fear it. 

MARHAM. 

And after all, perhaps, death was not meant to 
be altogether pleasant to us. 

AUBIN. 

No ; a skeleton is a skeleton. And a death's 
head is a death's head, ugly in itself, and without 
eyes ; but then through the eye-sockets there 
shines the light of God ; and that light the chil- 
dren of God know, and it gladdens them. 

MARHAM. 

You mean, that, the more godlike we become, 



38 EUTHANASY. 

the more godlike death will feel ; and that is true. 
But, Oliver, one day I am quite resigned to death, 
and perhaps the next day I am not so submissive. 
This ought not to be. 

AUBIN. 

And why not ? Is there any thing toward 
which you always feel the same ? Do pictures 
always please you the same ? Does not music 
please you less some days than others ? There 
was an acquaintance whom you would have been 
very glad to have seen yesterday, but not to-day. 
Are there any of your friends who are always the 
same to you ? Then why do you think death 
ought to be ? Man is a creature of many moods, 
and the thought of death does not, and cannot, 
agree with them all alike. 

MARHAM. 

Well, I hope my last day will not happen to be 
one of my fearful ones. 

AUBIN. 

Uncle, it will not. In a Jewish house, at a 
marriage feast, wedding garments were given the 
guests at the beginning. And when the Spirit and 
the Bride say, "Come," death brings us mortals 
a garment of willingness to put on. For I have 
known several good men who were afraid of being 
afraid at the last ; but none of them were. Of 
the fear of death we must not make a trouble, nor 
must we try to reason ourselves out of it ; for it 



EUTHANASY. 39 

will grow stronger so. There is no arguing with 
the fear of death ; for it is a ghost in a dark 
room, and vanishes only with a candle. 

MARHAM. 

In the eighteenth Psalm, David speaks of his 
having been compassed about by the sorrows of 
death and the grave. And then he blesses God 
for deliverance, and says, " Thou wilt light my 
candle ; the Lord my God will enlighten my 
darkness." In our fears we must pray, and so 
bring the light and the power of God over our 
souls. 

AUBIN. 

Yes, uncle. 

MARHAM. 

Prayer in the darkness of the night is the light 
of the heart. This was said by one whose mean- 
ing ought to be surpassed in experience by the 
weakest of us Christians. 

AUBIN. 

It is a beautiful saying. Who said it ? Some 
Jew ? 

MARHAM. 

A Mahometan. And I think he was a friend 
of Mahomet's. 

AUBIN. 

And a man that did not fear death, then ; 
though hardly a man, to be franticly persuaded, 
with Mahomet, that paradise is under the shadow 



40 EUTHANASY. 

of swords. For an awe of death we were meant 
to have ; and fears of it have their use. Down 
the valley of the shadow of death do dreadful 
mists arise ; then let the thought of God shine out 
from my soul, and it will glorify the mists, and 
make them golden with the light of heaven. 

MARHAM. 

Most of the reasons that frighten men at death 
ought to make them afraid to live. And besides, 
really, life is only a lengthened dying. 

AUBIN. 

Yes, our life is a dying daily, as Paul says ; 
and at the longest, it is not such a very long death. 
For a man may be ever so young and strong, yet 
it is likely the wood is growing in which he will 
be coffined ; and there is a divine dial-plate, on 
which the hour of his death is pointed to ; and 
what is to be his grave will be his grave ; and his 
body is waited for. 

MARHAM. 

Yes, we were as much born to die as to live. 
And if life is worth living, we ought to think that 
death is worth dying. But then we were not 
born sinners ; but sinners we shall die. Yes, but 
there is Christ Jesus ; and if we are in him, there 
is no condemnation for us. Martin Luther says, 
the fear of death is merely death itself, and that 
whoever utterly abolishes death out of the heart 
neither tastes nor feels any death. 



ETITHANASY. 41 

AUBIN. 

Yes, uncle ; but sometimes fear of death is a 

disease of the nerves, and no fault of the heart ; 

and sometimes it is a restless fancy. Sir Walter 

Raleigh, the night before his execution, could 

snuff the candle and make this couplet : — 

Cowards fear to die ; but courage stout, 
Bather than live in snuff, will be put out. 

But Doctor Johnson dreaded death all his life. 
He believed in another world almost desperately. 
Doubt it he did not, and could not. Yet he 
would like to have seen a spirit. An apparition 
would have been a happiness to him, for it would 
have made him sure of an hereafter. I suppose 
he feared dying, because he would have to leave 
his body behind him, — the eyes he had been used 
to see through, and the ears he had been used to 
hear through. To many men, the next world is 
blank, because they do not know how they are to 
feel in it. Yet how they now hear, and see, and 
feel, they cannot at all tell. I touch this table 
with my hand, and now in my mind there is 
knowledge whether the table is hard or soft ; but, 
up my fingers and arm, how did the sensation of 
touching the table pass into my brain ? I do not 
know. Now, as I speak, the air between us vi- 
brates ; there are airy vibrations ; this we know : 
but there is no knowing how the words of my 
mouth become instant ideas in your mind. 



42 EUTHANASY. 

MARHAM. 

It is the will of God. 

AUBIN. 

So it is ; and that is what we have to say of 
every function of our bodies and power of our 
minds, and of the whole world. How our souls 
will live hereafter is not a greater mystery, than 
how our bodies do live now. This world is not 
like a parlour, in which we know all the furniture, 
and every corner ; if it were, we might well shrink 
from death, and think it a door opening out of 
the familiarly known into the fearfully unknown. 
Birth, growth, health, and sickness, labor weary- 
ing the body, and sleep refreshing it, food sup- 
porting, and poisons hurting it, — of life in every 
way, we must say that we cannot tell how it is. 
And yet there are persons that shrink from the 
future life, and some that do not believe it, be- 
cause they do not feel in what way it will be ; 
while what the way is of the very life they are in 
they cannot tell. For they cannot tell how sight 
gets into the brain through the humors of the eye, 
nor how movements of the air get through the 
ear to be thoughts in the soul. They do not like 
thinking of death, because it opens into mystery ; 
while they themselves live in mystery, and move 
in it, and have all their being in it. A man fears 
for his soul in a new world, while he cannot find 
a bird, or animal, or insect, not one, which its life 



ETJTHANASY. 43 

does not exactly suit. Out of the body his soul 
will go into the man knows not what state, and 
so his mind misgives him ; while there is not a 
swallow comes out of its egg-shell into this great 
world unsuited to its manner of life ; and because 
the swallow wants it, there is an instinct of flight 
in it at a month old, which is wiser than geogra- 
phy and astronomy and meteorology. 

MARHAM. 

And yet we are afraid of what will go with our 
souls ; as though they could go anywhere else 
than to God ! 

AUBIN. 

There is an awe of death which is right, but it 
is not common ; and it is what life would be the 
sublimer for. What are the common fears of 
death ? They are what we caught from the tones 
in which our nurses used to frighten us with the 
grave ; they are terrors which survive among us 
from cowardly ages. Weaker and weaker I shall 
grow, and perhaps my mind may get infected 
with the failing of my body. And there may 
come upon me the forms of old terrors, and my 
reason may not be strong enough to command 
them back, but my faith will sustain me, I hope. 
Fear, fear, why should I fear ? For is not this 
a world which Christ died in ? 

MARHAM. 

Yes. And this is what makes me dread being 
afraid of death. 



44 EUTHANASY. 

AUBIN. 

Is it anywhere written in the New Testament 
that you shall not fear death ? It is a privilege 
not to fear it ; but a duty it is not. Well, dear 
uncle, if your terrors cannot be borne with in 
faith, and if they do come upon you, then they 
may be laughed away, perhaps ; for dying men 
do laugh, sometimes. 

MARHAM. 

Laughed away, Oliver ! 

AUBIN. 

Yes, uncle ; as being the perverse ingenuities 
of a soul frightening itself. But you will say, 
they will not seem perverse. Well, then, one 
way or another, in merriment or soberness, all 
things are to be denied which cannot be believed 
in the love of God. For it is no fancy, and it is 
the experience of our life, and it is Scripture, 
and it is the Gospel, that God is love. 

MARHAM. 

God is love. God is love itself. 

AUBIN. 

And this truth we will die in. Let what things 
will come into our thoughts. Wonderful is man's 
power of self-torture. And in some moods of our 
minds, we could fancy some most blessed truths 
ending in a frightful application to ourselves. Just 
as, in the Middle Ages, in a church built for the 
peace of the soul, a worshipper might get his eye 



EUTHANASY. 45 

fixed by some diabolical face carved on a corbel. 
Do not I live in God ? And shall I be afraid of 
dying in God ? Is it I that keep my heart go- 
ing ? And ought I then to dread its stopping ? 
Rather what I ought to fear is the will which it 
does beat with, — the Divine will. And if I am 
wisely afraid of that, I have nothing else to fear. 
God is the life of my life, I know and feel. And 
so I will not fear dying. I am in God, and I 
shall be in him everlastingly. Die in him I can- 
not, except as a grain of seed dies in the ground, 
to spring up again into a cluster of wheat-ears 
waving to the wind on lofty stalks. 

MARHAM. 

Yes, Oliver, when we die, I hope it will be in 
full faith of a new and a hundred-fold greater life. 
The hour is getting late. I am afraid, Oliver, I 
have made you talk more than you ought to have 
done. 

ATTBIN. 

O, no, uncle,. no ! 

MARHAM. 

Look at your watch, Oliver. It is getting late. 

AUBIN. 

So it is, uncle. And I ought to be readier for 
burial than I am. 

MARHAM. 

Why, Oliver, what do you mean ? 



46 EUTHANASY. 

AITBIN. 

That it is time I had my clothes off, and was 
getting into bed. 

MARK" AM. 

I have known one or two instances of per- 
sons being found dead in their beds. The night 
before, they did not think when they went up 
stairs 

AUBIN. 

How much farther they were going. 

MARHAM. 

No. 

AUBIN. 

And so, sometimes, while I am undressing my- 
self, I think that perhaps in an hour or two my 
soul may be unapparelled of my body. And 
then, through Christ within me, the hope of glory, 
my bedroom feels like the cave of the Arima- 
thean, and full of a power that will not suffer my 
soul to see corruption. And then, as I lie down, 
I say a few lines out of what the knightly physi- 
cian of Norwich used to call his dormitive to bed- 
ward. 

Sleep is a death ; — O, make me try, 
By sleeping, what it is to die ! 
And as gently lay my head 
On my grave, as now my bed. 
Howe'er I rest, great God, let me 
Awake again at last with thee ! 



EUTHANASY. 47 



CHAPTER V. 

This life of mine 
Must be lived out, and a grave thoroughly earned. 

R. Browning. 

The quantity of sorrow he has, does it not mean withal the quantity of 
sympathy he has, the quantity of faculty and victory he shall yet have ? 
" Our sorrow is the inverted image of our nobleness." The depth of our 
despair measures what capability and height of claim we have to hope. 
Black smoke, as of Tophet, filling all our universe, it can yet by true heart- 
energy become flame and brilliancy of heaven. Courage ! 

T. Carlyle. 

MARHAM. 

I am not afraid of death, Oliver, but some time 
perhaps I may be ; for better men than I have 
grown so in old age. Dr. Isaac Milner, — did 
you never read his life, Oliver ? He was Dean 
of Carlisle. In one of his letters, written in 
tears, and with his door bolted, he said it seemed 
as though Almighty God had hidden his face from 
him ; that his prayers were unanswered ; that his 
heart failed him ; and that it was no easy matter 
for him to look death and judgment in the face. 
Oliver, I do not dread death, but I may yet. 
For I think it is no clear view which I have of 
the next world ; and I fear it is from this world's 
being too pleasant to my eyes. 



48 EUTHANASY. 

AUBIN. 

This world is more to you than the world to 
come is. Well, uncle, so I think it ought to be. 

MARHAM. 

But my thoughts of an hereafter are so vague. 

AUBIN. 

How should they be otherwise ? This ought 
not to distress you. It is not littleness of faith. 
You have no clear notions of a future world ; but 
you are doubtful, not about its certainty, but only 
about the place of it, and the look and the man- 
ner of it. Now, in these respects, nothing has 
been shown us of the world to come. Our next 
will be a spiritual state ; and so, much more than 
the certainty of it could not be told us ; for the 
things of a purely spiritual life could not be made 
to be understood by us, whose language and ways 
of thinking have come so largely from our bodily 
experience. This world we breathe, and feel, 
arid see ; but the world to come we can only 
have faith in. 

MARHAM. 

And so I am afraid, Oliver, that my faith in an 
hereafter is weaker than it ought to be. 

AUBIN. 

It is not, uncle. From my knowledge of you, 
I know it is not. Men are capable of faith in 
another life ; some more, some less, than others. 
And I might have all faith in it, and not be the 



EUTHANASY. 49 

better for it, but be nothing st 11. Our degree of 
faith is not a thing for us to be torturing ourselves 
about. But, uncle, you do believe in a future life, 
only not as strongly, perhaps, as you are conscious 
of being alive. Why, how should you ? This 
green, familiar earth ! — it is home to live in it. 
And to this domestic feeling the other world may 
well be foreign, sometimes. 

MARHAM. 

You think so, Oliver ? 

AUBIN. 

If your faith in the world to come were the 
strongest possible, it could not possibly be of the 
same nature as your faith in the existence of India, 
or in your being able to get to 

Where the remote Bermudas ride 
In the ocean's bosom unespied. 

We can say a hundred and a hundred thousand 
things about the life we are living ; but about the 
life we trust to live, we can say only one thing. 
And so it feels as though we were saying almost 
nothing, though the one thing we can say is the 
greatest that can be said ; for we can say that a 
world of spirit there is, there certainly is. And 
so, as I was saying, uncle, your belief in an here- 
after is greater than you think it. And if it feels 
vague, it is because the world to come is vague as 
yet to us all. 

4 



50 EUTHANASY. 

MAE.HAM. 

What you say is a relief to me, Oliver. 

AUBIN. 

It is impossible that you could think of the fu- 
ture life in the same way as you think of to-mor- 
row. In regard to the manner of the life to 
come, you can only say that it will be a spiritual 
world, a world of spirits. But of the way of the 
present life, a thousand things might be said. It 
is sleeping and waking ; it is " Good night " on 
going to bed, and " Good morning " on getting 
up ; it is to wonder what the day will bring forth ; 
it is sunshine and gloominess ; it is rain on the 
window, as one sits by the fire ; it is to walk in 
the garden, and see the flowers open, and hear the 
birds sing ; it is to have the postman bring letters ; 
it is to have news from east, west, north, and 
south ; it is to read old books and new books ; it 
is to see pictures and hear music ; it is to have 
Sundays ; it is to pray with a family morning and 
evening ; it is to sit in the twilight and meditate ; 
it is to be well, and sometimes to be ill ; it is to 
have business to do, and to do it ; it is to have 
breakfast and dinner and tea ; it is to belong to a 
town, and to have neighbours, and to be one in a 
circle of acquaintance ; it is to have friends to 
love one ; it is to have sight of dear old faces ; 
and, with some men, it is to be kissed daily by 
the same loving lips for fifty years ; and it is to 



EUTHANASY. 51 

know themselves thought of many times a day, in 
many places, by children, and grandchildren, and 
many friends. 

MARHAM. 

You remindme, Oliver, of a passage in one of 
Hazlitt's works. I wish I could remember where ; 
but I cannot. But I have interrupted you, which 
I ought not to have done. 

AUBIN. 

No, uncle, you did not. All that I was going 
to say was, that, this life being so many happy 
things to some men, it is no wonder, and no fault, 
if they do not long for a change. They know 
what this world is ; it is all this happiness : the 
other world they do not know ; they know that it 
is happiness, all happiness, but they do not know 
what. 

MARHAM. 

But, Oliver, we are to long for the future life, 
for the sake of being with God. 

AUBIN. 

And have not we God with us now, uncle ? 
All I mean is this, that we ought not to distress 
ourselves about our piety, if this earth is so 
pleasant that we are not eager to be out of it. 
For did not God make the earth, as well as the 
heavens ? 

MARHAM. 

I think, Oliver, I cannot understand you. 



52 EUTHANASY. 

AUBIN. 

I mean to say, that I do not think God wishes 
to have us live in a transport about heaven. Many 
persons think it is a duty to be ecstatic about 
what their reward in heaven will be ; but this vio- 
lent feeling they cannot keep up ; and if they could, 
then they would be the worse for it, for it would 
disgust them with their duties and work. 

3IAEHA3I. 

That is so unlike your usual way of talking ! 

ATJKLN. 

No, dear uncle, it is not. What I have just 
said is in regard to heaven as a reward, and that 
is the only feeling about it which most persons 
have. There is another expectation of an here- 
after, that is like a Jacob's ladder, reaching from 
our souls to heaven, and up and down which, for 
our help, ascend and descend thoughts, like angels. 
Selfishness, eager for a heaven of enjoyment, is 
quite a different thing in the soul from love, and 
purity, and truth, yearning together for what is 
their native element. 

BffABWAM. 

So it is. 

AUBIH. 

Uncle, with you to love, and all these comforts 
about me, these many helps for improvement, 
these books to read, and all my time for myself, 
and with the green fields to walk in, and with you 






EUTHANASY. 53 

to think of me, and to talk to, and to be with, 
very, very pleasant is my life that now is. And 
pleasant, too, is my expectation of the life which 
is to come. My thought of heaven is this earth 
at its best, blossoming into infinity. 

MARHAM. 

Ay, now I understand you, not at all. But 
now, about what I interrupted you in, just now. 

ATTBIN. 

About the world to come, it ought not to be as 
though we did not know surely, because we do 
not know much. From the nearest star, our 
earth, if it is seen, looks hardly any thing at all. 
It shines, or rather it twinkles, and that is all. 
To them afar off, this earth is only a shining 
point. But to us who live in it, it is wide and 
various ; it is sea and land ; it is Europe, Asia, 
Africa, and America ; it is the lair of the lion, 
and the pasture of the ox, and the pathway of the 
worm, and the support of the robin ; it is what 
has day and night in it ; it is what customs and 
languages obtain in ; it is many countries ; it is 
the habitation of a thousand million men ; and it 
is our home. All this the world is to us, though, 
looked at from one of the stars, it is only a some- 
thing that twinkles in the distance. 

MARHAM. 

Twinkles ; that is, it is seen one instant, and 
lost another. 



54 EUTHANASY. 



AUBIN. 

of 



And seen only as a few intermittent rays 
light ; though, to us who live in it, it is hill and 
valley, and land and water, and many thousands 
of miles wide. So that if the future world is a 
star of guidance for us, it is enough ; because it 
is not for us to know, but to believe, that it will 
prove our dear home. 

MARHAM. 

That is very well said, Oliver. A little while 
ago, you said you thought that all men could not, 
perhaps, hope alike for the next life. 

AUBIN. 

Not with the same warmth. And then there is 
this. To a man lying hopelessly ill, heaven is a 
comfort ; to a martyr just about to suffer, it was 
courage ; and to a man laboring on in poverty 
and neglect, it is holy strength. But a man who 
is not poor, nor ill, nor about to be stoned to 
death, must not distress himself, if he does not 
feel all through his life what faith Stephen had 
only in his last moments. Faith comes of virtue. 
What are the virtues, then, through which an in- 
crease of faith can come to us ? Kindness to all 
men, sympathy with goodness in God and man, 
and what is more peculiar for our way of living, 
thankfulness for the ease and the many delights 
we have. In this comfortable house, uncle, ours 
ought to be very largely what is so very rare in 
men, the faith which comes of gratitude. 






EUTHANASY. 55 

B1ARHAM.. 

This faith we will seek through prayers and 
hymns. And as gratitude to God can be shown 
only through goodness to his creatures, Oliver, 
you shall think of some person for us to assist, — 
some one, I mean, whom we should not perhaps 
have helped, but for this conversation. 

AUBIN. 

And through sympathy with him, our souls 
shall be the better. And we will remember, be- 
sides, that for us faith can and ought to grow out 
of the love of friends, and nature, and art. For, 
in any right direction, our love can grow so strong 
and pure as to feel immortal. 

MARHAM. 

You mean 

AUBIN. 

That with a father of a family, if his is a whole- 
some hope in Providence, it has grown greatly 
out of what he has felt while embracing his chil- 
dren, and playing with them, and while thinking 
for them in the night, and hoping for good, and 
useful, and happy lives for them. And, of ne- 
cessity, a child's feeling towards God is the in- 
finity of what it feels for its parents. My faith is 
to be out of my own Christian heart, and not to 
be precisely what Stephen showed, or Paul felt, 
or Polycarp had. But let any one be of the 
Christian spirit, and he will feel himself of the 



56 EUTHANASY. 



Christian heaven. Love, integrity, disinterested- 
ness, — these, blending together, make a con- 
sciousness that crowns me with immortality ; I 
do not say very brightly so, but certainly. 

MARHAM. 

Is not that, Oliver, — is not that pride, or 
what may end in it ? 

ATTBIN. 

No, uncle ; indeed it is not. For in this way, 
when I feel myself immortal without thinking of 
it, I clasp my hands, and sometimes I kneel and 
lay my forehead to the ground, worshipping God, 
because I am made to feel justly and holily and 
lovingly. And because I love along with God, 
along with God I am sure I shall live. And so 
every man I love makes me feel myself immortal. 
And something of the same experience is worked 
in me by reading a good book, or hearing of a 
right action, and by the sight of any thing beauti- 
ful or sublime in nature. 



* 



EUTHANASY. 57 



CHAPTER VI. 

Blessed are they who see, and yet believe not ! 

Yea, blest are they who look on graves, and still 

Believe none dead ; who see proud tyrants ruling, 

And yet believe not in the strength of Evil ; — 

Blessed are they who see the wandering poor, 

And yet believe not that their God forsakes them ; 

Who see the blind worm creeping, yet believe not 

That even that is left without a path. — Leopold Schefer. 

MARHAM. 

You are not well this evening, Oliver. 

AUBIN. 

No, uncle, I am not. 

MARHAM. 

Not very unwell, I hope ; though you do look 
so, Oliver. What have you seen, or heard, or 
been thinking? Dear Oliver, something has dis- 
tressed you, I think. 

AUBIN. 

No, uncle. Only I have been thinking over 
my life before I knew you. 

MARHAM. 

Too painful for you, in your weak state, to 
think of. But it was for the best for you, we are 
sure. But I, — I ought not to be saying it, I 
know. That I ever lost sight of you is what I 
can never forgive myself. 



58 



EUTHANASY. 



But I 






AUBIN. 

Now, uncle, I am distressed, or I shall be 
very soon. 

MARHAM. 

Good Oliver, O, if only I could — 
cannot. 

AUBIN. 

Nay, dear uncle, now no more. 

MARHAM. 

Of all your many sufferings, I cannot retrieve 
one. What your lot in life has been, it has been. 
And what it is to be will not be as happy as I 
could wish, and as I would make it, only that 

your health But, indeed, had I found you 

earlier, things might have been different. 

AUBIN. 

Uncle, uncle, you have been very good to me, 
and you are. And believe me, uncle, that I am 
very happy. For this is only nervous weakness. 

MARHAM. 

But, O, Oliver, only to think 

AUBIN. 

Uncle, I quite agree with something of Jean 
Paul's which I have seen, somewhere. 

MARHAM. 

And what is it ? 

AUBIN. 

That if God were to show himself to us in the 
distribution of the suns, and in what makes our 



EUTHANASY. 



59 



tears fall, and in the abysses, of which he is the 
fulness, and himself the bounds, we should not be 
willing to say to him, " Be other than thou art." 

MARHAM. 

It is rightly and beautifully said, — very beauti- 
fully. But, Oliver, my dear Oliver, I am very 
sorry for you. But it is such a pleasure to me 
that I have never heard you murmur ! 

AUBIN. 

I hope not to be impatient. I hope to be pa- 
tient. God has done with me what is right ; and 
so he will do with me. 

MARHAM. 

Yes, dear Oliver, so we trust, and so we will 
believe. 

AUBIN. 

Yes, uncle, and so I do. God might inclose 
me in himself, and let me look through the eyes 
of his omnipresence ; and if he did, I should see, 
in the infinite, the mystic order to which the 
starry systems move ; and in a drop of water, I 
should witness the roomy space there is for the 
movements of a thousand lives ; I should know 
the way in which the armies of heaven are placed, 
and the wise purpose there is in the succession of 
human generations, as they are born and die. I 
should look into the mysteries of eternity, and 
feel that in human suffering God's love is the 
same as in the blessedness of the angels. I 



60 EUTHANASY. 

should see, all round the wide earth, how good 
all things are in their relation to the everlasting 
whole. And then, looking up the heights of heav- 
en, and down the depths of life, I should feel the 
goodness of the universe. And on seeing my 
own lot left empty amongst men, I should then 
long to return to it and fill it. Yes, if only for a 
moment I saw that look which always the uni- 
verse has to God, I should pray the Father for 
ever, out of my whole heart and the joy of it, 
" Thy will be done ; thy will be done." I 
should be happy for one glimpse of what life 
really is. But I may be happier without it ; be- 
cause through faith we may be more blessed than 
through our mere eyesight. For a man to see, 
and so believe, is well ; but blessed are they who 
do not see, and yet believe. Sorrow and pain ! 
I will bear them. Lord ! I will bear them. Not 
yet, O, not yet, would I pray to be taken out of 
this world ! Awhile, awhile longer may this 
chastening last. Lord ! let it end, not when I 
will, but when thou wilt. O, there are fields in 
the universe, so wide, and on which God's glory 
shines brightly and for ever, and, O, so blessedly ! 
But I would not enter on them yet, — not yet. 
This valley of the shadow of death I will wait 
in ; and I could wish to have the shadow of death 
on me, till my soul has fully and rightly felt it. 
A spirit I am, and so is God. And like a spirit 



EUTHANASY. 61 

with a spirit, is all which he does with me. A 
soul, a living soul, I am ; and I will think this 
strongly, and so feel myself to be God's. And 
God's I am for ever. And bright and beautiful 
is what his eye looks on, as my place in heaven, 
that is to be. 



EUTHA.NASY. 



CHAPTER VII. 

My soul such pleasure oft in sleep receives. 

That death begins to seem a pleasant thing, 

Not to be armed, perchance, with such a sting, 

Or taste so bitter, as the world conceives. 
For if the mind alone sees, hears, believes, 

While every limb is dead and languishing, 

And greatest pleasure to herself can bring 

When least the body feels, and least perceives, 
Well may the hope be cherished, that, when quite 

Loosed from the burden of her earthly chain, 

She hears, and sees, and knows her true delight. 
Rejoice, thou troubled spirit ! though in pain. 

If thou canst take, even here, so sweet a flight, 

What wilt thou in thy native seats again ? 

Sannazaro. 

One weary evening in illness, I fell asleep, it 
having been just before a subject of prayer with 
me, that God would grant me a right frame of 
mind to die in. For, as I said to myself at the 
end of my prayer, " It would be dreadful in 
death if sight were to fail me, and I could see no 
friendly face, and hearing were to fail me, and I 
could hear no comforting voice, and in my soul 
there were to be doubts and an agony of doubt. " 
And as I thought this, weakness overcame me, 
and I slept ; and very soon I dreamed. 

And in my dream I heard voices and footsteps. 
And it was as though many persons were going 



EUTHANASY. 63 

to and fro, in great gladness and in light. But I 
could not myself see at all, and I was like one 
blind. And I was persuaded that I had died in 
my sleep, and that I was at the gate of the city 
of God, and unable to enter in, on account of my 
darkness. And I was afraid to move ; for I did 
not know but that, in one step, I might fall head- 
long from the narrow way that leads into life. 
And I said in myself, "Unblessed art thou, and 
not able to see God ; and thou must have died in 
impurity of heart ; and always, always thou wert 
fearful, and like one not quite believing." I was 
terrified. I felt, as it were, the pit of destruction 
yawning against me ; I was to be an example of 
the just judgment of God ; and in my end was to 
be seen how, without any great wandering, the 
path of the commandment may be kept up to the 
last step, and that last step be perdition, through 
weakness of faith. O the dread I was in, and 
the terror ! 

I listened, and there was silence. It was as 
though all things were hushed by the awfulness of 
what was to happen to me. I was there, a spec- 
tacle to the spirits of men and to angels. My 
faith had failed me at the very last, and in the 
littleness of it I was to perish. There were wit- 
nesses of my wretchedness nigh me ; that I could 
feel ; and I could feel that there was sorrow 
amongst them. And within myself I thought, 



64 EUTHANASY. 

u Thy unbelief was thy own misery on earth, and 
now, at the very gate of heaven, it is a grief to 
the angels, and it is what God has no pleasure in." 
And now, at once, I was calm. Hell might be 
under my feet, but it could not open, except by 
the will of God ; and that blessed will was what 
I would pray to have done, though destruction 
had hold of my feet the while. I bowed my 
head, and covered my face with my hands, and I 
cried, " Though he slay me, yet will I trust in 
him." Then a voice of triumph said, " Now he 
has overcome, and has got the victory ! " Anc 
other glad voices said, " The victory, the victo- 
ry ! " But there was one which said, " Almost, 
he has." 

For a moment I could see, and then I was 
blind again. When I feared, then I was in a 
horror of darkness ; but every hopeful thought 
flashed through me, like lightning out of a mid 
night sky. I wondered what was to happen 
But happen what might, I thought I could perish 
gladly, if it were by the will of God, and for 
God's good purpose. 

And now, with this perfect love of God, my 
fear was cast out. And I was not in blindness 
any longer. The God whom I loved, I could see 
by. I could see ; and, O, by what a light ! For 
there was no shadow in it, because it did not 
shine from a sun or a moon, or from any one 



EUTHANASY. 65 

quarter. But it was uncreated light, and was the 
visible presence of God, and was itself a joy to 
see by. 

There were spirits standing round me. And 
some of them I knew, by their looks, were natives 
of the same world as myself. But towards oth- 
ers, I felt as though I did not know them, and 
yet as though I knew them well. O the blessed- 
ness which went through me from their looks ! 
Compassed about with them, it was as though I 
could have remained for ever, and not have mov- 
ed. But behind those who were nearest me, I 
saw standing a friend of mine, who had died 
many years before. His face was glorified ; but 
whether it was changed or not, I cannot tell. 
His look made the same feeling in me that his 
best w T ords used to do, and so it was I knew him, 
as I think. And I saw another person whom 
I knew. Then I said, " O my brethren, am I 
then amongst you, at last ? And am I come out 
of the earth so safely ? " 

Then I learned that I had yet to die. And 
many high things were said to comfort and en- 
courage me. I was in a tumult of glory, and 
joy, and wonder. Then I asked, " Shall I re- 
member these great things when I come to die ? " 
And then one answered, " No. Nor in the body 
will he remember them at all. For of the way 
of our spiritual life no knowledge can be kept by 
5 



66 EUTHANASY. 

a dweller of earth. But let them that have come 
out of the earth tell him what earthly words of 
theirs have proved the truest, and he will remem- 
ber them." 

And the first who spoke was one who had 
been a minister of Christ's in the town of my 
birth, but who had died a century and a half be- 
fore I was born ; for it was Richard Baxter who 
spoke, and it was as though he knew me. His 
name had been known and loved by me as a little 
child, with a love which I learned from my dear 
mother. And so, through earnest gazing on his 
face, I did not hear his words quite exactly. But 
as nearly as I remember, he said, " Never be 
persuaded that ever a soul will be cast out, which 
humbly, and earnestly, and with many prayers, 
has sought its God." 

Then Robert Leighton looked at me and said, 
"You, in your thoughts, shut up death into a 
very narrow compass, namely, into the moment 
of your expiring. But the truth is, it goes through 
all your life ; for you are still losing and spend- 
ing life, as you enjoy it." 

The next who spoke was one whom I knew 
to be John Wickliffe, and he said, " Men should 
not fear, except on account of sin, or the losing 
of virtues ; since pain is just, and according to 
the will of God. And the joy which saints have, 
when they suffer thus, is a manner of bliss which 



EUTHANASY. 67 

belongs to them in the earth ; and it may be more 
of joy to them than all their worldly desires." 

And then some one said, u You may not look, 
at your pleasure, to come to heaven in a feather- 
bed. It is not the way. For our Lord himself 
came hither with great pain and many tribulations ; 
that was the path wherein he walked hither. And 
the servant may not look to be in better case than 
his Master." He who spoke thus stood so that 
I could not see him, but by what he said I knew 
that he was Thomas More. 

M Reflect on death as in Jesus Christ, not as 
without Jesus Christ. Without Jesus Christ it is 
dreadful, it is alarming, it is the terror of nature. 
In Jesus Christ, it is fair and lovely, it is good 
and holy, it is the joy of the saints." These 
were Pascal's words to me. 

Then one who stood next to Pascal looked at 
me. Him I did not know ; but when he spoke, 
I knew him by his words to be Thomas a Kem- 
pis. And he said, " When the hour of your 
trial comes, do you pray, — O God, dearly lov- 
ed ! this hour, it is right that thy creature should 
suffer something from thee, and for thee. O Fa- 
ther, the hour is come for him, which from all 
eternity thou hast foreknown would come, that 
thy servant should lie prostrate at thy door ; but, 
Lord, do thou let him in to be with thee, O, for 
ever ! For a little while must T be nothing, and 



68 EUTHANASY. 

I must fail in the sight of men, and I must be 
worn with suffering and weakness. But it is all 
so that I may rise in the dawn of a new light, and 
grow glorious in heaven. Holy Father ! so thou 
hast ordered it ; and what is done and is doing on 
me is thy decree." 

When this prayer for my learning was ended, 
Augustine exclaimed, "O this life which God 
has laid up in store for them that love him, — this 
life indeed ! This happy, safe, and most lovely, 
this holy life ! This life which fears no death, 
which feels no sorrow, which knows no sin ! 
This perfect love and harmony of souls ! This 
day that never declines, — this light that never 
goes out ! Think of its blisses and glories, and so 
find some refreshment from the miseries and toils 
of a perishing life. And at the last, recline your 
weary head and lay you down to sleep with joy ; 
for you know now that that sleep shall be shaken 
off again, and the blessedness of this life begin at 
once on your awaking." 

Then a voice spoke ; and, O, it was so clear, 
and sweet, and grateful ! and it was the voice of 
Margaret Fox ; and she said, " Now these have 
finished their course and their testimony, and are 
entered into their eternal rest and felicity. I 
trust in the same powerful God, that his holy 
arm and power will carry thee through whatever 
he hath yet for thee to do ; and that he will be 



EUTHANASY. 



thy strength and support, and the bearer up of 
thy head unto the end, and in the end. For I 
know his faithfulness and goodness, and I have 
experience of his love. To whom be glory and 
powerful dominion for ever. Amen." 

All that were standing by said Amen, like one 
voice. And with Amen upon my lips, I awoke. 

I was sitting by the fire. And in my hand 
there was a book, into which I had copied many 
things from my reading. From this dream I in- 
ferred that we mortals have all the knowledge of 
the world to come which we can have, and all 
the assurance of it which is good for us, and that, 
for a believer in earnest, the right feeling towards 
the next life is hope, and not fear. And from 
my dream I learned that sympathy with saints 
gone hence brings us into that state of mind that 
is most firmly persuaded of the heavens, into 
which they have entered. 



70 EUTHANASY. 






CHAPTER VIII. 

Death ig another life. We bow our heads 

At going out, we think, and enter straight 

Another golden chamber of the king's, 

Larger than this we leave, and lovelier. — P. J. Bailey, 

And the pure soul emancipate by death, 
The Enlarger, shall attain its end predoomed, 
The eternal newness of eternal joy. — Southey. 



MARHAM. 

I have been reading your dream, Oliver. 
There is wisdom in it. And I like it much, and 
so I do the sonnet from the Italian. 

ATJB1N. 

But of course you do not think it my transla- 
tion ; for I am no poet. 

MARHAM. 

O, yes, you are, according to what you quoted 
this morning, from some one : — 

Poets are all who love, who feel great truths, 
And tell them ; and the truth of truths is love. 

AUBIN. 

What book is that which you have been read- 
ing, uncle ? 

MARHAM. 

A treatise by Peter Huet, on whereabouts 
Paradise was. It was written in the seventeenth 



EUTHANASY. 71 

century, like many, and perhaps most, of the 
books on that subject. I think myself, that Par- 
adise was in Asia, certainly. 

AUBIN. 

I dare say it was. 

MARHAM. 

You are not interested in the subject ? 

AUBIN. 

No, uncle ; or rather, I do not mind reading 
those books. Paradise is not so lost as is some- 
times thought. The garden of Eden is now 
spread out into the width of the world. Our 
homes are bowers in it ; our roads are walks in 
it ; and always within reach hang forbidden fruits, 
though now they are such as are often their own 
punishment in the eating, — apples of Sodom, 
golden in the rind and dust inside. There is in 
the garden still the tree of the knowledge of good 
and evil, and this we may eat of now ; for it is 
full grown, and the fruit of it is ripe. And by 
eating of it, we, too, have our eyes opened, and 
so are able to recognize, as the very tree of life, 
what otherwise looks deadly, and itself dead wood ; 
I mean the tree of the crucifixion. 

MARHAM. 

That life is lost by seeking to save it, and is 
saved by willingness to lose it, is very hardly, and 
not very often, believed ; though most persons do 
think they believe it. 



72 ETJTHANASY. 

ATJBTN. 

The tree to be desired to make one wise may 
be eaten of now, and so men do not mind it ; 
many of them do not, and so their eyes are never 
opened ; and so, being blind, they fail of the fruit 
of the tree of life. 

MARHAM. 

You would say, then, that only by eating of the 
tree of the knowledge of good and evil can men 
know that the world is a garden of Eden, with the 
tree of life in it. 

ATJBIN. 

But that now it is death who is in it, to dress 
it, and to keep it, none fail of knowing ; though 
to some he appears to be a spoiler of the garden ; 
and he looks an enemy of God, instead of being 
a servant and one to be trusted in by us crea- 
tures, fully, if not fondly. And this is through 
men's not taking of the tree of the knowledge of 
good and evil ; because if death came into the 
world with the forbidden eating of that fruit, it is 
the ordained eating of it that opens our eyes, so 
as to see in death an angel of light, toiling in 
earthly guise among us earthly creatures. 

MARHAM. 

Levelling us with the dust, out of which we 
were made. 

AUBIN. 

But into which we do not altogether, nor 
mainly, die. 



EUTHANASY. 73 

MARHAM. 

So we trust. But it is not what death does 
that makes us hope the more. It is with his soul 
in his face, that man can be believed immortal. 
But to me, a dead body 

AUBIN. 

Is no discouraging sight. For there is God 
about it. And his adorable will is as plain in the 
departure as it is in the presence of life. The 
body of a saint is a temple of God, from which 
the minister has withdrawn, and in which service 
is ended, and from which the Lord has accepted 
the prayer, " Now lettest thou thy servant depart 
in peace." 

MARHAM. 

You have so many pleasant images for death, 
Oliver, in talking of it ! I suppose it is from your 
remembering death in your cheerfulness. 

AUBIN. 

Uncle, I would wish to remember it more fa- 
miliarly. Eating and drinking, I would wish to 
remember death ; not by drinking out of a human 
skull, as some have done in loving remembrance, 
and others out of hostile triumph ; but I would 
eat my food, bethinking me often that any morsel 
may be my last. This would be a solemnity 
that from its very commonness could not continue 
mournful, but might be profitable always. 



74 EUTHANASY. 

MARRAM. 

Death never ought to be a painful thought with 
any one, because it ought to be so common, — 
such a daily expectation. 

AT7BIN. 

It ought not to be shrunk from for its novelty. 
It is not as though we were the first or the sec- 
ond of our race, or as though we belonged to the 
second or to the third generation of our kind. It 
is not as though none or only a few had ever 
died, and we were to be of the earliest. Only 
since the decease of Charlemagne, there have 
died twenty-five times a thousand millions of our 
fellow-creatures. Let us weep with the bereav- 
ed that weep, and feel along with those that are 
ill, and those that are dying ; and then down to 
the grave will be like a path we know well, and 
too well to be frightened on it. 

MARHAM. 

It is not by chance, but through God, that we 
come to an end. Many ways does God speak 
to us creatures of his, as in the events of life, 
from the Bible, and from within our hearts ; and 
I trust that we have listened to that Divine voice 
often enough, to know the tone of it at once and 
everywhere. Because, when we are spoken to, 
and have our souls required of us, we shall know 
then that we are spoken to by the loving voice of 
sy Kur Father in heaven ; and we shall answer, as I 



EUTHANASY. 75 

hope, O, so willingly ! — " Lord, now lettest thou 
thy servant come to thee in peace." 

AUBIN. 

And that we shall say and feel, I hope, and no 
doubt we shaH, if we have often said to God 
before, cc Thy will be done." We live in one 
another ; father and mother in their children, hus- 
band and wife in one another, and some few 
friends in one another. So that we most of us 
die more than once, before we die of disease. 

MARHAM. 

In the same way as Erasmus said of his friend 
Sir Thomas, "It seems as though in More I 
myself had been killed." 

AUBIN. 

When death takes those we love, then we love 
death. Those who are alone in the w T orld are as 
though they had been left for sleep ; and death 
comes over them like a sleep, for they are not 
unwilling. 

MARHAM. 

Not once, nor one thousand times, but more 
than fifty thousand times, I have been to sleep ; 
so that I ought not to be afraid to die now. And 
to my feelings, the evening of life ought to deepen 
on to the obscurity of the grave, as pleasantly as 
dusk gets dark. 

AUBIN. 

Yes, uncle, just so ; and exactly so. There 






76 EUTHANASY. 

is no universal night in this earth, and for us in 
the universe, there is no death. What is to us 
here night coming on is, on the other side of the 
earth, night ending, and day begun. And so what 
we call death the angels may regard as immortal 
birth ; and so they do, as we may well believe. 

MARHAM. 

So they do, very often, we may be sure. In 
the early days of the Christian Church, what day 
a Christian died on was spoken of as that of his 
birth, — his birth into a higher existence. 

AUBIN. 

Through the body and its wants, I am held 
down to the earth's surface, and to its customs 
and employments ; and so I am kept out of heav- 
en, and from off the bosom of God, and from the 
company of Christ, and out of the rapture of the 
angels. 

MARHAM. 

God help us ! God make us sure of that hap- 
piness at last ! God make us ready for it, — for 
that joy unspeakable ! 

AT7BIN. 

The day of our decease will he that of our 
coming of age ; and with our last breath we shall 
become free of the universe. And in some re- 
gion of infinity, and from among its splendors, 
this earth will be looked back on like a lowly 
home, and this life of ours be remembered like 
a short apprenticeship to Duty. 



EUTHANASY. 77 



CHAPTER IX. 

This is the prerogative of the noblest natures, — that their departure to 
higher regions exercises a no less blessed influence than did their abode on 
earth ; that they lighten us from above, like stars by which to steer our 
course, often interrupted by storms. — Goethe. 

MAEHAM. 

Any thing a dead man leaves behind him, un- 
finished, makes one feel so strangely the nothing- 
ness of human purposes ! I remember the pain 
in which I once saw what would have been a 
very beautiful picture, only it was not finished ; 
for the painter had died very suddenly. And 
once I was in the studio of a sculptor who was 
lately deceased ; and I was much affected by the 
appearance of a statue, the nobleness of which 
was just being brought out of the marble when 
the artist died. And whatever purpose death 
cuts a man off from has for his surviving friends 
a look 

AUBIN. 

As though it had been shone on by light not 
of this world. 

MARHAM. 

But it is sad, when genius dies with its work 
unfinished. 



78 EUTHANASY. 

AUBIN. 

I do not think so, uncle. Besides, when 
would genius finish its work, — all the work it 
could do ? For its growing grandeur would al- 
ways have fresh excellence to show. 

MARHAM. 

Ay so, you are right. But Spenser's Fairy 
Queen, incomplete for ever 

AUBIN. 

Is a broken sentence ; and what ought to be 
the end of it is most eloquent silence. Spenser's 
writing is so vivid, that recollection of what he 
says is like a voice speaking in one's brain. I 
shut my eyes, and then the poet himself is with 
me ; and he tells me of Prince Arthur and his 
friends, in such a way as to make virtue itself feel 
more virtuous still ; then he stops, when he has 
only half told what he began ; then there is a 
word and half another word ; and then Spenser 
says no more. Then I am thoughtful, and an 
awe comes over me. For of the poet's having 
died I do not think. And it is as though Spen- 
ser had been changed while talking with me. 
And then I think how, to the angels, this whole 
earth looks like a Mount of Transfiguration. And 
feel afresh how this is a scene in which men be- 
come spirits, and blessed spirits, if they like. 

MARHAM. 

And such we will hope Spenser is. 



EUTHANASY. 79 

AUBIN. 

There have not been very many men of whom 
it could be better hoped than of Spenser, I think. 

MARHAM. 

I think he was certainly a good man, Oliver, 
because out of the heart are the issues of life ; 
and Spenser's heart was full of the beauty of a 
moral life. 

AUBIN. 

Now and then, he either has or makes occasion 
to say things, which, from most other men, would 
be lustful incentives ; but from him they do not 
sound so. 

MARHAM. 

Showing how, to the pure, all things are pure. 

ATJBIN. 

So what you said of another we say of you, 
O Edmund Spenser ! your virtue is the bright- 
ness of your honor on earth, and elsewhere it is 
the reason 

For which enrolled is your glorious name 

In heavenly registers above the sun, 

Where you, a saint, with saints your seat have won. 

MARHAM. 

He lies buried 

, AUBIN. 

Not he, but his body does. 

MARHAM. 

In Westminster Abbey, I think. 



80 ETJTHANASY. 

AUBIN. 

Yes, uncle ; and nigh the grave of the poet 
Chaucer. Yes, and Geoffrey Chaucer was he 

That left, half told, 
The story of Cambuscan bold. 

He is another of those who have gone away with 
the word in their mouths, and who have left us to 
feel as though that word were to be spoken yet, 
and we to hear it, 

MAK.HAM. 

I will read you the last lines that Chaucer 
wrote. They are the end of what is called the 
Good Counsel of Chaucer, and are said to have 
been made by him upon his death-bed, while ly- 
ing in his great anguish. 

That thee is sent, receive in buxomness. 
The wrestling with this world asketh a fall. 
Here is no home ; here is but wilderness ; 
Forth, pilgrim, forth ! beast out of thy stall ! 
Look up on high, and thank thy God of all. 
Waive thou thy lust, and let thy ghost thee lead, 
And truth thee shall deliver ; 't is no dread. 

AUBIN. 

Or, as I have seen the last line modernized, 

Truth to thine own heart 
Thy soul shall save. 

A choice couplet, is not it, uncle ? 

MARHAM. 

Perhaps it is. But I should feel the worth of 
it better, if you were to recite the poem itself 
that you quote from. Now will you ? 



EUTHANASY. 81 

AUBIN. 

Yes, uncle ; what I remember of it, I will. 

Britain's first poet, 
Famous old Chaucer, 
Swan-like, in dying 

Sung his last song, 
When at his heart-strings 

Death's hand was strong. 

" Earth is a desert, 
Thou art a pilgrim : 
Led by thy spirit, 

Grace from God crave ; 
Truth to thine own heart 

Thy soul shall save." 

Dead through long ages 
Britain's first poet, — 
Still the monition 

Sounds from his grave, 
" Truth to thine own heart 

Thy soul shall save." 

Chaucer of the fresh, green memory, — blessings 
be with him ! For him utterly dead, dead both 
in body and soul, we cannot think. And so he 
helps our faith in immortality. 

MARHAM. 

Thank you, Oliver. But what book are you 
looking for ? 

AUBIN. 

The Fairy Queen. I have found it. I want 

to see what were Spenser's last lines. Now, 

uncle, I am right, am I not, in having a liking 

even for the incompleteness of some of our great- 

6 



82 



EUTHANASY. 




er authors ? We hear a poet singing ; and while 
we listen, we are bettered, and silent, and we 
are enraptured. Then, while we are listening so 
eagerly, the voice dies away into silence and into 
heaven. And so for a while heaven feels the 
nigher us, and to our earthly apprehensions the 
more real. 

MARHAM. 

Oliver, you make me feel the same as yourself. 
Well, now what are the last lines of Spenser ? 
They are part of what w T as to have been a canto 
in a seventh book, I suppose. 

AUBIN. 

Now when you remember that Spenser was in- 
tending six more books for his poem, do not 
these very last lines look as though, while he 
wrote them, another hand had been laid upon his 
hand, and had guided it prophetically ? 

MARHAM. 

In the midst of life we are in death. 

AUBIN. 

And in the very middle of what Spenser thought 
was his great work, he died ; and the lines that 
happened to be the last from his pen are as though 
they had been meant against his death : — 

For all that moveth doth in change delight. 
But thenceforth all shall rest eternally 
With Him that is the God of Sabaoth hight ; 
! that great Sabaoth God, grant me that Sabbath's sight. 






EtTTHANASY. 83 



Now, in the very midst of his work, is not it as 
though the poet's hand had been unconsciously 
guided into writing a prayer against the death that 
was just upon him ? 

MARHAM. 

In the midst of his diligence he longed for 
heaven ; and that instant, it opened to him. 
Some might call this chance ; but I would not, 
nor would any, I think, who have lived piously 
and watchfully ; for such persons know the power 
prayer has to bring us nigh to God, and they 
know how holiness can refine, almost into film, 
what separates our souls from the Soul they live 
in ; and so they know that, even in this earth, 
something of the light of heaven is possible, in 
some minds. 

ATTBIN. 

Dear uncle, you have said what I quite agree 
with ; and it is a great truth. 

MARHAM. 

Oliver, do you remember any other authors 
who have died and left unfinished works behind 
them ? There must be many ; but I cannot re- 
member any of them. 

AUBIN. 

Jean Paul Richter died, leaving behind him a 
manuscript he had not been able to finish. It 
was on the immortality of the soul. And so 
while expressing his faith in an hereafter, Richter 



84 EUTHANASY. 

went away into the knowledge of it. Frederick 
Schlegel left incomplete what was to have been 
the second part of his greatest work. He was 
seized with death at his writing-desk, and the last 
word he wrote was But. And that is a word 
death scratches with his dart, at the end of the 
record of every life. A man's eyes are shut ; 
his breath is stopped ; his last words are spoken, 
and have been written in the book of God's re- 
membrance ; but, — ay, " but after this, the judg- 
ment." Death means blessedness, and it means 
perdition ; and which meaning it shall have for 
us is left for ourselves to fix. There is given us 
the choice of two pages, for our lives to be writ- 
ten on ; but they are not quite blank, and if we 
will write on the wrong side, then we write our 
condemnation with our own hands ; for at the 
bottom of that page it is written beforehand, 
" But after this, perdition." 

MARHAM. 

Did not Keats leave some poem unfinished ? 

AUBIN. 

Some poem, uncle ! Hyperion he left, and it 
was as a fragment. Now I will read you what 
were his last lines. 

Thus the god : 
While his enkindled eyes, with level glance 
Beneath his white, soft temples, steadfast kept 
Trembling with light upon Mnemosyne. 
Soon wild commotions shook him, and made flush 



ETJTHANASY. 85 

All the immortal fairness of his limbs, — 
Most like the struggle at the gate of death, 
Or liker still to one who should take leave 
Of pale, immortal death, and with a pang 
As hot as death's is chill, with fierce convulse 
Die into life. So young Apollo anguished ; 
His very hair, his golden tresses famed, 
Kept undulation round his eager neck. 
During the pain Mnemosyne upheld 
Her arms as one who prophesied. — At length 
Apollo shrieked : — and lo ! from all his limbs 
Celestial 

Celestial was the last word Keats wrote, and 
then he himself became it. Very singular, is not 
it ? And in telling what Apollo felt, is not it as 
though Keats had himself agonized into immor- 
tality ? 

MARHAM. 

He is a very vivid writer ; and he is a favorite 
of yours, Oliver, is not he ? 

ATJBIN. 

Yes, uncle. For my experience in life has 
been not very unlike what his was. I have had 
worse things to bear than he, but I have had a 
stronger body to endure in than he was born with. 
What a thought this is ! — 

Where soil is, men grow, 
Whether to weeds or flowers ; but for me, 
There is no depth to strike in. 

This I used to say every day of my life, before I 
knew you, uncle. But now I do not, O, not 



86 EUTHANASY. 

now ! For I have your love, uncle, and I am at 
ease in my mind. I am so happy to what I was ! 
and sometimes it almost frightens me to feel how 
happy I am. But I must not talk of this. 

MARHAM, 

Oliver, my dear Oliver 

AUBIN. 

Uncle, you know what poor Keats 's end was. 
He died of a broken heart ; or rather of consump- 
tion, brought on by wrongs done to him, and by 
anxiety, and by the want of any prospect in life, 
such as any one of ten thousand persons might 
have opened to him. His poems are testimonies 
of the world's strange character. They are lov- 
ed, dearly loved, now ; but now the author can- 
not be honored nor helped in life. And all the 
greater truths that are in the world, — what are 
they ? They are what were coined by wise men 
out of their experience. And then did they pay 
them away ? No ; but they gave them, like 
charity, on the way-side of life. The noble spir- 
its ! And then they were hooted, like the utter- 
ers of base coin ; and if any one of them had a 
fast friend, he was scowled at and suspected. 
This wickedness, uncle, you and I have never 
been guilty of, I trust. But wherever genius is 
to be seen, we reverence it like light that is not 
without a something divine in it ; and we do not 
think the worse of a man, because, in the world's 
darkness, God has given him that light to hold. 



ETJTHANASY. 87 

MARHAM. 

Genius often has ill success in the world. 

ATJBIN. 

To the world's great shame ; for genius is only 
a genial working of the mind, a conjoint action of 
the moral and the intellectual powers. A man of 
the highest genius is a highly moral and a highly 
religious man, and a man of infinite love. Is he 
disabled for success in the world, — for getting 
money and friends ? So he is in some respects ; 
but it is in what respects are immoral and irre- 
ligious. Men of some genius have done wrong 
things ; so they have, for they were men ; but 
they would have done worse things but for their 
genius. A man of perfect genius is a man of 
trembling sensibility, of the greatest delicacy of 
feeling, of honesty most scrupulous, and of a tem- 
per to help the needy as much as he can. The 
conduct of such a man is like Christianity in ac- 
tion, and very often it is not very unlike Christ in 
its end, in this world. 

MARHAM. 

Oliver, you are, — but you do not quite mean 

Oliver, our Lord Jesus was crucified, and 

it was for his goodness. Perhaps it was impos- 
sible that there could ever be a greater contrast 
than there was between Jesus in the image of 
God, and the Jewish priesthood in their priest- 
craft. Nothing at all like such a moral contrast 
can possibly exist now. 



88 EUTHANASY. 

AWBIN. 

O, yes, uncle, there does ; and it is between 
Christianity and the manners of the world. My 
dear uncle, you know nothing of life, nothing at 
all of the badness of it. I do not mean to say, 
that there are not hundreds and thousands and tens 
of thousands of positions, in which men may and 
do act as Christians. But I do mean to say, that 
there are very common circumstances, in which a 
man fails, as a matter of course, if he does to 
others as he would have them do to him. 

MARHAM. 

Do you think it would prove so, Oliver, if it 
were tried ? 

AUBIN. 

Uncle, if you were to put a bit of gold into a 
bushel of pease, and the measure were then to be 
well shaken for a time, would not the gold go to 
the bottom ? 

3IARHA3I. 

Yes, Oliver, it would, it would. 

AUBIN. 

Through having genius, does a man fail in the 
world ? It is grandly, and like the dying of a 
martyr ; and not because the man is not fit, and 
the best fitted, for any work, the lowliest and the 

highest. 

MARHA3I. 

Oliver, I agree with you quite. I have been 
provoking you to talk. 



EUTHANASY. 89 

AUBIN. 

O uncle, have you ? Then you will agree with 
me in what I am going to say. 

MARHAM. 

What is it ? 

AUBIN. 

That the way in which often genius gets treat- 
ed, in this life, argues there being a life to come. 
If there were no grounds given us for expecting 
another world, still it might be believed in, and it 
would be, by some few better persons, though it 
were only as a place in which for wisdom to be 
justified of her children. 

MARHAM. 

Yes, Olive;*, I do quite agree with you. 

AUBIN. 

Of all the proofs of an hereafter offered by hu- 
man nature itself, to my mind there are none so 
conclusive as the sufferings of the righteous for 
righteousness' sake ; or as those miseries that are 
brought upon a man through his goodness. A 
man's nature has been too good for the sympathy 
of his fellow-creatures ; then how solemnly sug- 
gestive this is of what must surely be the great 
love of God for it. 



90 EUTHANASY. 



CHAPTER X. 

Still in the soul sounds the deep underchime 
Of some immeasurable, boundless time. 

For otherwise why thus should man deplore 

To part with his short being ? "Why thus sigh 

O'er things which fade around and are no more, — 

While, heedless of their doom, they live and die, 

And yield up their sweet breaths, nor reason why, — 

But that within us, while so fast we flee, 

The image dwells of God's eternity. — Williams. 

AUBIN. 

Yes, uncle, I know what that feeling is. 

MARHAM. 

All the good I have done seems nothing, and 
all that I have attempted would go into a nutshell. 

AUBIN. 

A nutshell ! The whole world would go into 
it, seas, mountains, and air. So Sir Humphrey 
Davy has said. 

MARHAM. 

And in one of the Psalms, David has said of 
God, that he takes up the isles as a very little 
thing. And we that live on the islands, what are 
we ? Ants on molehills we are, and less still. 

AUBIN. 

What then ? For the less we feel ourselves, 
the better ; the meaner, the happier; because, like 



EUTHANASY. 91 

a medal, character has two sides, and humility is 
always the obverse of greatness. At times, not 
often, indeed, nor long, but still sometimes, none 
are so weary of life as they that can enjoy it most 
and that are worthiest^of it. For what is that 
weariness ? It is the pining of a great heart ; it 
is a soul craving for itself some work worthy of 
its pains. The feeling of life's nothingness ar- 
gues a mind capable of heavenly grandeur, and if 
capable, then made for it. 

MARHAM. 

So we will hope. 

ATTBIN. 

I am glad there is no everlastingness in the 
world, and that I know it. I am glad the world 
is only for a season, for me and my fellow-spirits 
to be in. It makes me feel myself. Do not we 
know, that chambers are furnished, and are beau- 
tified with gold and silk, for princes to lodge one 
night in, — the very shortness of the use being 
the greatness of the honor ? And so, because this 
beautiful earth is only for so short a time, I am 
sure of what must be my own royalty. 

MARHAM. 

Royalty ! 

ATTBIN. 

Kingly character, then. And so I only feel 
myself what Christ has made me ; for through 
him I am a king and a priest unto God and the 
Father. 



92 EUTHANASY. 

MARHAM. 

Now, Oliver, I never thought of that passage 
so. But so it is, that one man sees all heaven 
through a text which to another reader is blank of 
meaning. , 

AUBIN. 

And one man feels himself nothing on the 
earth, while another feels the earth nothing under 
him. But both ways of feeling are right ; but 
they are quite right only when they are moods of 
the same mind. 

MARHAM. 

I think so ; for, in itself, life's emptiness is 
mournful and discouraging to feel. 

AUBIN. 

So it is. But, uncle, this life is more real to 
you now than it was in your youth. For now 
that you feel yourself a living soul, eternity feels 
your element, and it is what you live in ; for they 
are only appearances that change, reality in all 
things being eternal. 

MARHAM. 

I do not think I understand you, Oliver. 

AUBIN. 

You have looked through death, and beyond it, 
into life ; this you have done ; you have looked 
through what is darkest, and so now, in all tem- 
poral things, there is for you the feeling of what 
is beyond and eternal. But in this way, when life 



EITTHANASY. 93 

becomes nothing to us, it is because we are our- 
selves sublimed. You go into the city, and it is 
to your better knowledge that luxury is a look only, 
and not a joy : about the court men are fretting 
for coronets and collars, but it is to your more 
manly judgment that these things are bawbles : 
in his study, the metaphysician is wearying him- 
self with thought, and he does most of it in vain, 
as you think now ; but this is because your spirit- 
ual experience is greater than it was once, and 
because you are sure that all wise thinking about 
the soul must end in the wish to have it become 
as a little .child's. And this earth is beautiful, 
very beautiful, but then you feel that it will perish. 

MARHAM. 

Vanity of vanities, all is vanity. 

ATJBIN. 

Perhaps so. But those words are themselves 
no vanity. For when I think this world away 
into nothingness, then where is my soul ? It is 
somewhere. Where is it ? It is left face to face 
with God. This I have often felt for a moment ; 
not more. A trance-like feeling ! The very awe 
of which made me remember myself, and so 
brought the world back again between my soul 
and God. What are those lines, uncle, that you 
quoted last night ? 

MARHAM. 

They are Samuel Daniel's : — 



94 EXJTHANASY. 

That unless above himself he can 
Erect himself, how poor a thing is man ! 

And so he is. 

AUBIN. 

Something like that couplet is what Coleridge 
has written in his biography, that we were indeed 

■navra kovis, kcu Tvavra ye\a>s, Ka\ Trdvra to fir]div, if we 

did not feel that we were so. Vanity of vanities 
Coleridge would have been himself, only that he 
knew he was ; no! he felt he was. For because of 
that very feeling, he knew that he must himself be 
something better. That I am dust, and laughter, 
and nothing, how can I tell ? That I am not spirit, 
I cannot know, but by some feeling of what spirit 
is ; and by my having that feeling, I must be my- 
self somewhat spiritual. It is nobly said by Jean 
Paul, that man would be altogether vanity, and 
ashes, and smoke, upon earth, only that he feels 
as though he were so. 

MARHAM. 

That is well said by him. 

AUBIN. 

So it is. And so we will conclude, with him, 
at those times when the world is empty and noth- 
ing to us, that — O God ! this feeling is our im- 
mortality. 

MARHAM. 

Amen, amen ! 



ETJTHANASY. 95 



CHAPTER XI. 



Awake, my soul ! pour forth thy praise, 
To that great Being anthems raise, — 
That wondrous Architect who said, 
"Be formed," and this great orh was made. 

Since first I heard the blissful sound, — 
" To man my spirit's breath is given " ; 

I knew, with thankfulness profound^ 
His sons we are, — our home is heaven. — Hafiz. 



MARRAM. 

O Oliver ! this is a lovely afternoon. 

AUBIN. 

It is, very,. Uncle, this is May-day. We can- 
not welcome the month along with the boys and 
girls, with their garlands of flowers, but we can 
along with Wordsworth, in a verse of his. 

Flattered with promise of escape 

From every hurtful blast, 
Spring takes, sprightly May ! thy shape, 

Her loveliest and her last. 

Uncle, I have been thinking of what we talked 
about yesterday. 

MARHAM. 

And what have you thought ? 

AUBIN. 

That with a mind riot diseased, a holy life is a 



96 EUTHANASY. 

life of hope, and at the end of it, death is a great 
act of hope. 

MARHAM. 

This is what you mean, is not it, — that the 
righteous has hope in his death ? 

AUBIN. 

Hope, the growth of his life ; for this is quite 
another thing from the merely wishful state of 
mind that illness may well cause. I will tell you 
what I mean, from my experience. When I am 
happiest, my spirit turns to God of itself. At 
the gain of a new truth, in the reading of some few 
books, at the sight of mountains, in two or three 
successful instances of worldly endeavour, two or 
three times in hearing of good actions, and some- 
times, uncle, in loving you, my delight has been 
so great, that speaking it to God has been a re- 
lief to me. Then, through thanksgiving, my hap- 
piness has grown greater still, but calmer, and 
purified, and with something mysterious blending 
in it, as though it were a foretaste of other higher 
blessedness. I wonder why this was. Perhaps 
it was in this way. Through faith, the hand of 
God is seen by us ; and so every gift that we 
have from it reminds us of the infinite stores out 
of which it was given us. But rather, I think, 
that hope in happiness is an instinctive accom- 
paniment of trust in God. 



ETJTHANASY. 97 

MARHAM. 

Commonly it accompanies it, and strongly, 
and perhaps always ; and therefore, perhaps nat- 
urally. 

ATJBIN. 

There is a hope in God that is merely despair 
of the world, but there is a hope that comes of 
having lived wisely ; and that is the experience 
of a man who has seen on the tree of his life, as 
one after another its blossoms opened, how there 
was on them the dew of God's grace ; and so 
when the tree begins to be bared in autumn, early 
or late, he does not fear but that it will live and 
be beautiful again, in that great spring-time that 
will be followed by no winter. 

MARHAM. 

We will be grateful to God, then, Oliver, more 
and more ; and so, perhaps, at the last, be quite 
trustful in him. 

AUBIN. 

That is what I have been wanting to say ; and 
it is what I think to myself, often. Morning and 
evening, in prayer, I will strive to feel God, and 
the whole day through I will be glad in him, and 
every pleasure, I will say to myself, is from him. 
So, through faith, I will see the hand of God 
above me, and I will see it often, and get used 
to the sight of it ; so that when it shuts upon my 
7 



98 EUTHANASY. 

soul to withdraw it from the world, I shall not be 
afraid, but glad. 

MARHAM. 

Hope it for me, Oliver, and pray for it for me, 
as well as yourself. I wish I may not, — O, I 
wish I may not go hence in fear ! 

AUBIN. 

Fear, uncle ! No, no ! we will not fear. For 
have not you been happy here, very happy, very 
often ? And for a good man, what is death ? It 
is a door in our Father's house, out of one cham- 
ber into another ; and to fear to go through it 
would not only be doubt of what is beyond it, 
but would argue want of gratitude for what happi- 
ness we are now having, which is a thing we will 
not be guilty of. But, O ! our heavenly destiny is 
prophesied in this, that thankfulness for what we 
have makes us more trustful of what we may 
have. We count up our pleasures in the Divine 
presence ; and then, as we look up to heaven, it 
is as though God were smiling upon us, and en- 
couraging us to think that our earthly joys are 
only the beginning of delight. 

MARHAM. 

Several times, in prayer, I have had such mo- 
ments of holy confidence. I have often feared 
they might be presumptuousness ; but I hope your 
interpretation of what they mean is correct ; and 
I think it is. 



EUTHANASY. 



99 



ATJBIN. 

O uncle ! all our better moods are prophetic 
of eternity for us. Justice feels itself rooted 
more deeply than the mountains are ; it is of the 
very essence of love to be consciously everlast- 
ing ; and faith feels as though it could die death 
after death, and be only the nigher God with 
every change. 

MAE.HAM. 

And God would never let these holiest affec- 
tions of our nature be false witnesses to us about 
our destiny. 

ATJBIN. 

O, no ! For it is by the prompting of God 
they speak, and in the name of God ; and they 
are worthy of all belief. 

MARHAM. 

And we will believe them ; we will. And we 
will thank God for every way by which our faith 
can be strengthened. 

AUBIN. 

After achieving a hard duty, after a great act 
of resignation or of forgiveness, after a very ear- 
nest prayer, and after a kind action, I have some- 
times had a strange, mysterious feeling, as though 
some great revelation were about to be made to 
me, — such a calm in the soul, as though God 
were about to speak in it. Draw nigh to God 
and he will draw nigh to you ; — this is corrobo- 



100 EUTHANASY. 

rated highly and solemnly, out of the soul's own 
experience. There are, — yes, there are mo- 
ments permitted us, that are an earnest of the 
certainty and the way in which our souls will be 
drawn into heaven, at last. 



EUTHANASY. 



101 



CHAPTER XII. 

To some hath God his word addressed v 

'Mid symbols of his ire, 
And made his presence manifest 

In whirlwind, storm, and fire ; 
Tracing with burning lines of flame, 
On trembling hearts, his holy name. — Anon. 

Now for my life, it is a miracle of thirty years, which to relate were not 
a history, but a piece of poetry, and would sound to common ears like a 
fable. — Thomas Browne. 

ATTBIN. 

My birthday I make a thanksgiving of to God, 
that it was when it was ; and so I do of my birth- 
place, very devoutly, as it was not to be farther 
west than Europe. 

MARHAM. 

My dear Oliver, do not thank God with a res- 
ervation. But I know you do not mean it. Be- 
sides, you will feel as though you had been born 
very far towards the west, if you will think of 
yourself as a native of what St. Clement wrote 
of, from Rome, as the worlds beyond the ocean. 

ATTBIN. 

Born in a Christian era, and among Christians, 
nineteen out of twenty of the human race have 
not been ; but I was. And as I was not to be 
one of the earliest disciples, nor a friend of St. 



102 EUTHANASY. 

John's, nor a convert of St. Paul's, I am glad 
that I was born when I was, and not sooner. 
For, with my nature, it would have been ill for 
me to have been born within the unmitigated in- 
fluence of St. Augustine, of Gregory the Great, 
or of John Calvin. There are scales that will 
weigh to the five-hundredth part of a grain ; 
but for use they require the very temperature of 
the room to be minded in which they are, and 
in any wind they would never balance at all. 
Now, I think that in the religious struggles of 
the sixteenth century, and in the politics of the 
seventeenth, my judgment might perhaps have 
been false to me. I do think, that, if I had been 
born twenty years earlier, I should, as a spirit, 
have grown up like some sea-side trees, that 
branch out and blossom only on one side. 

MARHAM. 

Prejudice blights most of us. 

ATJBIN. 

So it does. And instead of our charities blos- 
soming all round us, they do so only towards cer- 
tain quarters ; and they are the quarters whence 
blow the breezes that flattered us in our opinions 
or interests. 

MARHAM. 

Perhaps it is more so with ourselves than we 
think ; we will hope it is not, and we will endeav- 
our it may not be so at all. 



ETTTHANASY. 103 

AUBIN. 

I congratulate myself that my birth was when 
it was ; for I might have been born in Greece, 
and yet not in Athens ; in Athens, and yet not 
have been a Christian ; in the first century, I 
might have been born a Christian, but have lived 
all my life as a sand-digger, at Rome, in what 
are now called the Catacombs. But I was born 
into a richer world than Milton was, or than Jere- 
my Taylor, or than Newton ; for I was born into 
a world that was become the more glorious for 
their having felt, and thought, and spoken in it. 

MATtHAM. 

You knew the name of Jesus early, and so you 
knew, as a boy, pure religion, and what truth 
there is in philosophy, and what is best in the re- 
sults of science. But this you know. 

AUBIN. 

Yes, uncle, and I thank God for it. And next 
after early baptism in the name of Jesus Christ, I 
thank God for my mother-tongue's having been 
English ; for by this I was made heir to the mind 
of Shakspeare ; owner of a key to the treasure- 
house of Locke's thought ; one acquainted with 
Sir Thomas Browne's worth and oddity ; free 
of a church-sitting under Isaac Barrow ; a fishing 
companion of Isaac Walton's ; and one to differ 
from Bishop Ken, and yet to love him. 

MARHAM. 

No, Oliver, I did not speak. 



104 ET7THANASY. 

AUBIN. 

The house of my birth was in the outskirts of 
a borough ; and the front-door opened into the 
town, and the back-door into the country. This 
was a happy thing for my boyhood, because town 
life made me think, and the country made me 
feel. The town was like an atmosphere of 
thought when I went into it, and the country, 
when I was alone in it, was an ever-changing in- 
fluence upon me, — like a presence of awe one 
minute, and another minute, like a joy melting 
into tears ; and then, again, it was as though my 
soul felt itself whispered by the breezes, " Come, 
let us away into the heavens, and worship to- 
gether." 

MARHAM. 

Oliver, you make me feel that I have many 
reasons for thanking God that I have never ac- 
knowledged yet. 

AUBIN. 

I think it much that I have lived in some of 
the riper years of Wordsworth, and Thomas Car- 
lyle, and Ralph Waldo Emerson. It is not a lit- 
tle to have learned what it is that Orville Dewey 
preaches. It is something, too, that I have been 
a reader of Alfred Tennyson, and that, from 
over the Atlantic, I have heard Longfellow sing 
his ballads. And it is as though I could die, 
more confident of not being forgotten before God, 



i 



EUTHANAST. 105 

for having been of the same generation with 
John Foster, and Thomas Arnold, and Henry- 
Ware. 

MARHAM. 

How do you mean ? 

AUBIN. 

In the presence of a good man, we feel the 
better ; and the better our mood is, the nigher 
God feels to us. So that, in thinking over the 
saints who have been of our generation, and half- 
known to us, as it were, we ourselves feel the 
holier, in our capacities at least, and so as though 
God were more surely with us. 

MARHAM. 

And with us he is always, from birth to death ; 
and in every moment of our lives, as much as in 
the first. Oliver, you look much better than you 
did. I wish you, and now I begin to expect for 
you, many happy returns of this day. 

AUBIN. 

Thank you, uncle. But there are many days 
I should be happier to see return than this, I 
think. I do not know though. But I will tell 
you what I mean. The birthday of the soul is 
greater than that of the body. And, besides, if a 
birthday is reckoned as what life was given us on, 
then I have had many birthdays. 

MARHAM. 

How have you, Oliver ? 



106 EUTHANASY. 

AUBIN. 

I will tell you, uncle. One October afternoon 
a person was drowning, and I went to his assist- 
ance. 

MAR.HAM. 

Was he saved ? 

AUBIN. 

Yes, uncle. But when I was exhausted, which 
I was very soon, I was caught by an eddy in the 
river, and I sunk. 

MARHA3I. 

How were you saved ? 

AUBIN. 

The river was very rapid, and it rolled me on 
to a sand-bank, off which I was dragged on to 
the grass. When I was drawn in under the 
water, I struggled hard, but I could not rise. I 
was quite aware of my danger ; but I w r as as calm 
as I am now. I believed my life was ending, 
and I thought, " Well, it is strange that I should 
have lived all these years of education, and en- 
durance, and hope, only to be drowned." Then 
I seemed to see, at a glance, all my life, from 
my earliest consciousness to the moment w 7 hen I 
leaped into the deep water. It was as though 
there w r ere a presence in me of all I had ever 
done, or said, or thought, or known. I remem- 
bered little things of my infancy, and I saw the 
meadow r s, and the trees, and the sky, just as they 



EUTHANASY. 107 

had last looked to me. Then I could not lift my 
hands any longer; and I felt as though sinking 
through an endless depth of feathers. I thought, 
" Now this is death. God receive my spirit ! " 
And he did, for I became insensible ; and I had 
no care of it myself, but God gave me my spirit 
back again. I was swept on to the sand-bank ; 
my body was seen lying there, and it was drawn 
out of the water, and through the reeds, into the 
meadow. And now I feel, that, when I breathed 
again, it was with a life given me anew. 

MARHAM. 

My brave, good Oliver ! 

AUBIN. 

When I was a school-boy, there was a build- 
ing on fire, and the doors of it could not be open- 
ed. I climbed up to one of the windows, and 
broke it, and got in through it. I let myself drop 
on to the floor, and groped my way along the 
wall to the doors, which I unbolted, and then I 
fainted ; for I had not been able to breathe, for 
the smoke. And just then the flames burst 
out. 

MARHAM. 

Oh! 

AUBIN. 

Many other narrow escapes of my life I have 
had ; once was while I was bathing, and another 
time was in a storm at sea. 



108 EUTHANASY. 

MARHAM. 

Your life having been renewed to you so often 
and so strangely, I do not wonder at your not 
feeling the beginning of it as so very special. 
And, indeed, when we think of what sleep is, it 
is as though every morning our souls have what 
is a resurrection out of more than oblivion. 

AUBIN. 

I will tell you another strange thing that hap- 
pened to me. I had done, with some effort, 
and not without earnest prayers, what I consider 
to have been the most righteous action of my life. 
But by it I had alienated the only two or three 
friends I had, who could help me in any way. 
Besides this, I had intrusted a man in distress 
with all my little money, as a loan for a short 
time, and he had died suddenly, without leaving 
any thing for my repayment, though, if he had 
lived a few days longer, I should certainly have 
had my money. I had worked day and night for 
a week, in the hope of being a few shillings the 
better. But my labor had been all in vain. I 
was penniless ; I was without a friend to speak 
to ; and I was weak in mind, from grief, and 
anxiety, and hard work, and no sleep. My self- 
control was failing me ; and I was going away 
from the town I was in, with I cannot tell what 
other notions, but certainly with the feeling that I 
was never to return to it again, when a man laid 



EUTHANASY. 109 

his hand on my shoulder, and said, — "I want to 
speak with you, and you must go back with me 
to your lodgings, for I have come fifteen miles 
to see you. But how ill you are ! You seem as 
though in a high fever. Would your surgeon 
think it right you should be out of doors ? " I 
answered, that I should be well soon ; for I could 
not tell him that I was too poor to have medical 
help. The man wanted to consult me on a case 
of conscience ; for he said, that, somehow, he 
thought he could trust me. While talking over 
his affairs, I forgot my own ; and by using argu- 
ments to strengthen his will, I got courage my- 
self. When he left me, I fell asleep. And that 
night I slept long and well, which I had not done 
at all for five nights before. When I awoke in 
the morning, I was quite another man from what 
I was the day before ; and that day, there opened 
to me the prospect of getting a little employ- 
ment. My reason was failing me, and would 
altogether have failed me, but for that man's hav- 
ing come to me. What was it brought him to 
me, at the very last moment he could have found 
me ; for in another minute I should have been 
out of the town ? It was not chance ; it was 
Providence. And if I am in possession of my 
reason now, it is because my reason was, in that 
time of need, renewed in me, and made mine, as 
much afresh as when it was created in my soul at 
first. 



1 10 EUTHANASY. 

MARHAM. 

My poor, dear Oliver ! 

AUBIN. 

Once I did what was against the will of every 
person I was connected with, and nearly all of 
them disliked me for it. So that I did not do it 
easily, as you may suppose. The hardness of 
my struggle was great. It was not without tears, 
and an agony of distress. Very painful it was. 
O my God, what I felt ! And well I might 
feel ; for freedom of conscience was beginning in 
me. A nobler birthday for me that season was, 
than the day on which merely my lungs got free 
to play. 

MARHAM. 

It is a birth that not many of us ever have, 
Oliver. 

AUBIN. 

When a man, for conscience' sake, does what 
his acquaintance will hate him for, 4hen his soul 
has its birth ; and till he does this, or is ready 
to do it when wanted, his mind is not a soul. 
What is meant by our having been born on such 
a day ? That that day we began to draw breath 
for ourselves, and to live in and through our 
bodily functions. So, for a long while, our 
minds live in the minds of others about us, 
only feeling what others feel, and wrongly per- 
haps, as well as what is called respectably. It 



EUTHANASY. Ill 

is the birthday of a soul, when a man finds him- 
self listening to conscience, as though to God 
calling him, when he follows the voice, when he 
goes out from his father's house, and from all that 
is dear to flesh and blood, and goes, like Abra- 
ham, not knowing whither. 

MARHAM. 

But to God, and nigher to God, he does go 
certainly. Ay, at such a time, such a man's soul 
is born anew within him. And the angels, as 
they look at him from heaven, see that he is be- 
come not of this world. 

AUBIN. 

There are, then, some days of our lives that 
are more to be thought of than our birthdays. 
Our birth is a beginning only ; and it is a com- 
mencement of what may perhaps prove perdition. 
But these other days are what man gets to be an 
heir of heaven in. The third heaven St. Paul 
was in once. One beyond another the heavens 
are, and differing from one another in glory, like 
stars. And in this world there are those, who, as 
children, were such as there is a kingdom of 
heaven for ; who, as youths, lived up to the holy 
height of the dwellers in the second heaven ; and 
who, as men, have days in which they are born 
into fitness for one heaven one year, and for a still 
higher heaven the next year. 



1 12 ETJTHANASY. 



MAKHAItf. 



God give us such days, and many of them ! 
But eveiy day might be such, if we wished it ; 
but we do not ; we are not morally strong enough 
to wish it. The day on which one man is 
crowned, another man has to stand begging in the 
streets. And the sun shines on the contrast, and 
there is no help for it in the sunshine, nor in the 
poor man himself. But it is otherwise in the 
world that is shone upon by the sun of righteous- 
ness. For in that world, and in the light of that 
sun, any man may make himself what he will, — 
a brother of St. Paul's, a friend of Christ's, a 
ruler elected to be over many things, an heir of 
salvation, and a son of God. But much of this 
grace and blessedness we do not receive, because 
we do not ask. I believe this, but not enough. 
Lord ! help my unbelief. O, it is sad to think 
how seldom the voice of God is listened for, 
though there are times and ways in which it makes 
itself heard by the most careless ! When the 
voices of pleasure are silenced about us, then we 
are wretched, and we cannot help hearkening for 
what comfort God may speak to us. And through 
the lips of a friend's dead body there comes to us, 
out of the unseen world, a warning we cannot 
help minding for a time. And sometimes we are 
touched so strangely, by words and by little things 



EUTHANASY. 113 

which happen to us, that we cannot but confess 
God's power in them. 

AUBIN. 

When I was seven years old, I heard a hymn 
read from the pulpit ; and there was one verse of 
it that thrilled me so, that I could fancy myself 
hearing it being read now. I remember it to this 
day, though I have never heard the hymn, nor 
seen it, since. 

Youth, when devoted to the Lord, 

Is pleasing in his eyes ; 
A flower, when offered in the bud, 

Is no vain sacrifice. 

With the invitation of that hymn, it was as though 
I was caught up into a heaven of resolution and 
hope. 

MARHAM. 

And that, I suppose, was one of the earlier of 
those days in which you were born again. Well, 
it is a great day on which a man first draws 
breath ; but it is quite as great a day for him, 
perhaps, on which he first draws his breath in 
hope or in fear. 

AUBIN. 

Uncle, I shall never forget my finding a ser- 
mon of Channing's. I read it, unknowing of the 
author's fame, and I think from the beginning to 
the end without once looking off the pages. And 
when I had read the discourse, I said, " The 
8 



1 14 EUTHANASY. 

Father of spirits be thanked for this ! for now I 
can understand the Gospel, and now I shall be 
able to grow in grace." This was on one of the 
greater days of my life, one August afternoon, 
when I was a youth. 

MARHAM. 

Your spiritual experiences interest me very 
much. 

ATTBIN. 

The other day, I was looking over some notes 
of my writing in a book, during a time of great 
distress with me. And I saw what I wrote one 
night after very earnest prayer, and perhaps the 
most effectual, fervent prayer I ever prayed. It 
is to me a record now of the beginning of a new 
era in my life, as a soul, a suffering soul, and a 
soul to be perfected. After the date of the day 
of the month and the year, these are the words : 
— " This night have I seen God for the first 
time." At that time of agony, in the earnestness 
of my prayer, I felt the presence of God with me, 
almost as though I saw it. I have now a feeling 
of what I felt then. 

MARHAM. 

Yes, it is strange how the feelings of some days 
of our lives do last on in us. Yet it is not so 
strange, either ; for we are in ourselves what those 
few days make us. 



ETJTHANASY. 115 

AUBIN. 

Once I was not, and now I am. This is a 
thing to think of ; it is a great, great thing. Up 
and down Syria the patriarchs wandered, and 
in their tents talked with their wives, in the val- 
leys pastured their cattle, and here and there 
built altars, for sacrificing on to God ; but in their 
way of life there was no part for me. At the 
building of the Pyramids, laborers crowded, and 
toiled, and shouted ; and there was great earnest- 
ness ; but there was no feeling of it for me. The 
hundred gates of Thebes were opened and shut ; 
but there was no going in or out through them 
for me. Thousands of millions of men and 
women were born, and loved one another, and 
died ; but in all that kindness, there was no share 
for me. Rome grew, and grew vast, and decay- 
ed ; but there was never any place in it for me. 
In England, Britons dwelt together ; and then 
Saxons sat round blazing hearths, and Norwe- 
gians and Normans had houses, in which they en- 
joyed themselves ; and age after age men talked 
with one another, and worked together, and rest- 
ed together, and were merry and sad together ; 
and I was not anywhere. The sun shone on this 
very spot, and it was cloudy here, and it rained, 
and just as it does now time wore on ; but I was 
not in it. And what thousands of years birds 
had been singing, and the flowers had been flow- 



116 EUTHANASY. 

ering, and rivers had been flowing, and day and 
night had been, while I was nowhere ! Nowhere ? 
Alive I was not. But I was a thought in the 
mind of God ; and now I have been made, and 
now I am what Providence has care of. But 
when I think of the time, the eternity, past in 
which I was not, and then think of the day I was 
born, I feel fresh from the hands of God ; I feel 
as Adam may have done when he got up from 
the earth, and knew himself that ■ minute made 
out of the dust of it. 

MARHAM. 

Fearfully and wonderfully we are made. 

ATJBIN. 

Years, hundreds of years, thousands of years, 
hundreds of thousands of years, for infinite ages, 
I had no being, though God was meaning I should 
have ; then, a few years ago, he let my life begin, 
in his gift of a child to my father and mother. 

MARHAM. 

O, but it is a wonderful life, this of ours, when 
we do think what it is ! Every child at its birth 
is an Elnathan, a gift of God. 

AUBIN. 

And it is not for God to give and not to care. 
Sometimes my soul is in darkness and mourns, 
and it is as though God were far from me ; but he 
never is, and I know he is not. For God is not 
with us less one day than another, though there 



EUTHANASY. 117 

are seasons in which our souls can feel him more. 
Yes, I know that what God has been to me at 
any time, he is always ; and he is more to me 
than what I know, infinitely more. O, there are 
days that call to me out of the past, and one asks 
solemnly, " Dost thou not remember having been 
born again, and was not that change God with 
thee ? " It was ; and what I am now is because 
God is with me. And another asks, "Wert 
thou not as one dead once, and art thou not alive 
again ? " Yes, and my soul's going out of the 
body will not be more terrific than many passages 
in my life have been. The day of my death will 
not be stranger for me than several days have 
been that I have lived through, through God ; 
and so for which I have come to know God the 
better and the more happily. And I shall die, 
but only to know the more blessedly that God is 
the Father of us spirits. 



1 18 EUTHANASY. 



CHAPTER XIII. 

Mysterious Night ! when our first parent knew 
Thee from report divine, and heard thy name, 
Did he not tremble for this lovely frame, 
This glorious canopy of light and blue? 
Yet, 'neath a curtain of translucent dew, 
Bathed in the rays of the great setting flame, 
Hesperus with the host of heaven came, 
And lo ! creation widened in man's view. 
Who could have thought such darkness lay concealed 
Within thy beams, O Sun ! or who could find, 
"Whilst fly, and leaf, and insect, stood revealed, 
That to such countless orbs thou mad'st us blind ? 
Why do we, then, shun death with anxious strife? 
If light can thus deceive, wherefore not life ? 

J. Blanco White. 

MARHAM. 

Persons who have no faith themselves cannot 
understand in what way those who have it are the 
better for it. 

ATJBIN. 

But whether we know it or not, we are all of 
us mysteries to ourselves and to one another. In 
our souls there is what is connected with God, 
and through that channel what may come, or 
how we may be quickened, it is not for us — no, 
nor for the angels — to say. 

MARHAM. 

It is very likely that hereafter some very slight- 



EUTHANASY. 119 

est help or change may be enough to make us en- 
joy ourselves a thousand times more than we have 
ever done. 

AUBIN. 

There are landscapes by Paul Potter which are 
a delight to look at. But the Dutch scenery that 
he painted from, and painted exactly, is ugly and 
very dull ; or rather I should say, it is so to most 
persons ; but to Paul Potter it was not. Now I 
can believe, if some little want were supplied in 
my spirit, that the whole earth would be glorified 
to me, and God be seen throughout it. 

MARHAM. 

And so God be all in all, even to the eye. 

AUBIN. 

You remind me of another thing which I have 
remarked. A man has looked at a scene some- 
where, and thought it to be very pretty ; but when 
he sees it as a landscape in some great master's 
painting, he feels it to be spiritual, and his soul is 
the better for the sight. 

MARHAM. 

Is it so, Oliver ? Well, how do you account 

for it ? 

AUBIN. 

The artist is an interpreter of the earth's look, 
and such a helper we most of us need ; just as 
the heathen cannot understand the Gospel without 
its being explained to their minds. However, 



120 EUTHANASY. 

the more godly we are, the more we shall feel 
the spirit of God in all God's works, and in all 
his workings with us. The lily looked to Christ 
more, and something diviner, than it does to us, 
when he spoke of it as being so arrayed in glory 
by God. God so clothing the grass of the field ! 
— there is a way of thinking of that which ought 
to clothe our souls in faith. 

MARHAM. 

Faith, perfect faith ! That is the garment 
which in the wearing would make life be like a 
high festival, and this earth like the house of the 
Lord, and our thoughts like Christ with us. 

AUBIN. 

That is what I am sure of; and from my being 
sure of it, my little faith serves me more than it 
otherwise would. Troubles and pleasures and 
death are about me. And they are about me like 
a blessed home. Though this is what I do not 
see ; but I do know it. So, in whatever my cir- 
cumstances are, I can feel at home, and not like 
a prisoner ; just as in this house I am sure that I 
*am at home, even in the dark, and when I can 
only feel things about me and not see them. 

MARHAM. 

Whatever our darkness, God is in it ; and 
through faith in him, if we have not light at once, 
we have peace. 



EUTHANASY. 121 

AUBIN. 

Death comes to us in the dark, and so he is 
dreadful to many men ; but to the saint he is not. 
For though the Christian cannot see, yet he feels 
what the look of death must be ; and rightly, for 
in the light of heaven death looks divinely, and is 
one of the angels of God. 

MARHAM. 

I have been thinking that the fear of death is 
from thinking too much of one's self. At the last 
hour we will look up to God, and then death will 
come upon us as though straight from God. 

AUBIN. 

God is in the world and in all things more 
plainly than I can see ; but I can trust in what 
Christ saw. O, there is a song of triumph over 
our human nature, which day unto day is said 
about the earth, and which night unto night is 
chanted, and which the morning-stars sing to- 
gether in for joy ! The song itself I cannot hear, 
but the joy of it I can believe in, and I do, and 
I will. So, at the last, I will feel as though un- 
derneath me the earth were glad, and as though 
the heavens were bending towards me from above, 
and as though there were joy among the angels at 
seeing in me what to them is birth immortal, 
though we mortals call it death. 



122 ETJTHANASY. 



CHAPTER XIV. 

The tree 
Sucks kindlier nature from a soil enriched 
By its own fallen leaves ; and man is made 
In heart and spirit from deciduous hopes 
And things that seem to perish. — Henry Taylor. 

ATTBIN. 

You draw a deep breath, and fold your hands, 
and drop them a little, and sigh. What is it for, 
uncle ? 

MAEHAM. 

It is an Eastern proverb, that the recollection 
of youth is a sigh. 

ATJBIN. 

And so it may be in the tent of a misbeliever, 
and not without reason, with a man whose hands 
shake so that he cannot hold the lance, the tip of 
which was once protection for him, and bread for 
him, and glory, and gold, and the leadership of a 
tribe. But your Arabic proverb ought to be an 
untruth in England. 

MARHAM. 

Yes, the Gospel saves old age from being 
gloomy in itself; but there are past pleasures 
that are a sadness to think of. 






EUTHANASY. 123 



AUBIN. 

Then they ought not to be, and in themselves 
they are not. With you, uncle, the recollection 
of youth ought to be quite another thing than a 
sigh. 

MARHAM. 

It is John Wilson who says, — 

How wild and dim this life appears ! 

One long, deep, heavy sigh, 
When o'er our eyes, half closed in tears, 
The images of former years 

Are faintly glittering by. 

AUBIN. 
And falsely, if they make a Christian sad. Old 
men get from one another the habit of sighing 
over what is gone. What John Wilson wrote 
about a buried saint, we ought to say about youth 
when it is dead and gone, — 

The body in the grave is laid, 
Its beauty in our hearts. 

And it is in the feeling of that beauty, that old 
men ought the more to hope for immortality. I 
say, uncle, that remembered joys are abiding 
joys ; for I am a Christian. But if I had no 
hope of heaven, then my memory would be like 
a charnel-house, and would be what I should not 
like to look into ; for then, in its chambers, all 
recollections of youth and happiness would be 
painful ; for they would be forms of perished 



124 EUTHANASY. 

pleasures ; and to think of them would be like 
opening a friend's coffin, only to see the body rot. 
But to Christian feeling, the remembrance of early 
delight is like some foretaste which has been had 
of the blessedness of heaven. 

MARHAM. 

With me, Oliver, the long, long past was so 
happy ! 

AUBIN. 

And is become so poetical. To your mind 
now, the rod is what might have blossomed in 
the nursery any morning ; and a whipping at 
school is to you now as though it had been an 
emphasis of delight, which I do not think it ever 
was. What you are, you feel yourself to be ; 
but what you think you once were, that you never 
were. You should be thankful, uncle, that the 
past does become poetical ; but you should not 
therefore let the present feel melancholy. In the 
sunset of life, the path behind looks the more 
golden, the farther off it is ; but it only looks so, 
for it is not so really. Besides, uncle, there 
might be eyes in which your early would seem 
less happy than your present life. It is only to 
me that what befell me in my boyhood is so 
glorious. 

MARHAM. 

True! 



EUTHANASY. 125 

AUBIN. 

What troubles we have, we feel ; but what are 
over, we do not even remember. For nearly 
every misfortune is like Janus, and has two faces ; 
the one with which it comes is terrific to look at, 
but the face with which it passes away is that of 
an angel of God. 

MARHAM. 

Oliver, more than once, at a sudden appear- 
ance in my house, I have been frightened, and 
hid my face, and prayed God to hide the evil 
from me. And more and more dreadful it seemed 
to grow. But when I prayed for strength to 
bear the look of the calamity, then it became 
bearable, and slowly it grew bright ; and at its 
vanishing there was a glory left behind. And so 
what I prayed against at first, proved at last to 
have been an angel with me, entertained una- 
wares.' 

AUBIN. 

Uncle, what terror you felt, you do not feel 
now ; but the joy thrills on in you still. Of all 
life past, there was no one happy day the sun- 
shine of which does not brighten us now, when 
we look back ; but the clouds of the gloomy 
times are vanished as though they had never been. 

MARHAM. 

Well, it is so. 



126 ETJTHANASY. 



ATJBIN. 

Pleasures are pleasures for ever. You, uncle, 
are happy in the happiness of the past, in all that 
you remember of it, in the holidays, and sports, 
and adventures of your childhood, in the suc- 
cesses of your youth, in many a night's and mid- 
night's conversation with learned men and dear 
friends, and in those watchful hours, when, from 
the firmament of thought, the greater lights first 
reached you with their glorious rays. Your 
times of delight are a delight to remember ; but 
your seasons of suffering are no pain to recollect. 
That they existed, you know ; but what they 
were, you cannot at all feel. Anxious nights, 
bitter disappointments, great sufferings, you have 
had ; but of very few of them is there any of the 
painfulness in you now. 

MARHAM. 

That is what argues the goodness of God very 
strongly, — that our pleasures are lived by us 
over and over again, but not our pains, or at most, 
not many of them. 

ATJBIN. 

None of what I have been speaking of, for I 
have been meaning such troubles as are over. 

MARHAM. 

Our friends we grieve for many days and years 
after the day of their loss. 



EUTHANASY. 127 

ATJBIN. 

That is because they are not a past, but a con- 
tinual loss, for a long while. But of your friends 
who died many years ago, the very burials are 
not sorrowful memories now. 

MARHAM* 

Very dreadful life would be, if grief for the 
departed never wore out ; but it does, and so as 
to leave no feeling of what it was. Or rather, 
I think, our departed friends become to us what 
we cannot weep for. And the longer we have 
been weeping, the more peacefully at last we 
give over ; for those whom we mourn the most 
are they who become to us the most saintly to 
think of. 

ATJBIN. 

Yes, they do. I had a dear friend waste away 
in my sight, week by week, and die. The agony 
of this, I know, was great ; but I have no feel- 
ing of what it was, now. From me, at the time, 
he* seemed to disappear in darkness. But my 
eyes were blinded with tears ; and they were the 
darkness ; for now, as I look back, it seems to 
me as though he had vanished like an angel of 
light, and as though he had left a track of glory 
along the years during which I knew him. 

MARHAM. 

So, then, you will have me think that it is my 
remembrances of youth which have been bright- 



128 EUTHANASY. 

/ 

ening, and not my latter years which have been 
darkening ? 

AUBIN. 

Yes ; and I think this, too. In your mind 
there have sprung up, from time to time, thoughts, 
of which you reaped the harvest in joy, but the 
seeds of which were sown in you in tears. 
These thoughts you remember, and the joy with 
which you had them first. But you have no re- 
membrance of how they first began to grow in 
you, in what was a time to weep. 

MARHAM. 

No, no ! We have not the same remembrance 
of pain as of pleasure. 

AUBIN. 

The recollection of pleasure is itself pleasure ; 
but the recollection of pain is not pain. And if 
the suffering be quite over, the memory of it is 
more than agreeable ; it is blessed. For, to a 
Christian, the after-taste of the cup of sorrow is 
like a draught from the river of water of life. 
But indeed, excepting of sin, all recollections are 
more or less pleasant ; some like a thrill of the 
nerves, and some like the reading of poetry ; while 
others make mournful music in us, and others, 
again, are like the holy fervor of a thanksgiving. 

MARHAM. 

The past, then, may sadden us, and what one 
now is may sigh for what one once was ; for you 



EITTHANASY. 129 

say that there are recollections that may make a 
mourning in us. 

ATTBIN. 

Mournful music in us, uncle. And there are 
masses for the dead, which, to listen to, are full of 
the spirit of immortality ; and so ought all an old 
man's memories to be. My life I would not 
live over again ; would you yours ? Why, then, 
should you sorrow for what you would not wish 
to have ? 

MARHAM. 

Few and evil are the days of the years of our 
lives, say the Scriptures. 

ATTBIN. 

The Scriptures say it ? No, they do not. 
They only say that Jacob said it. And when 
he did say it, he did not mean that life was evil 
with him, when seven years of service seemed 
only like a week, for the love he had to Rachel. 

MARHAM. 

When he said that his days had been evil, I 
suppose he meant that life, as a whole, felt so to 
his aged feelings. 

ATTBIN. 

About life, my dear uncle, whatever Jacob 
may have said and felt, you ought not to feel and 
say the same ; for though of the same flesh as 
the patriarch, you are not of the same spirit ; for 
every man, in Christ, is a new creature. 
9 



130 EUTHANASY. 

MARHAM. 

You are right, Oliver. And I was wrong in 
using as my own Jacob's last words about life. 
And so you say, I think, there is a fashion of 
speaking mournfully about old age ; and of speak- 
ing comes feeling. 

AUBIN. 

Good and evil are the lot of old age, and so 
they are of youth. Does it seem now as though 
youth had been all good ? Is not it, then, in 
some things because early life has resulted in 
abiding good ? And, perhaps, behind you many 
of the points that catch the light of heaven most 
blessedly are what were once shuddered at as 
mountains of hardship to cross. 

MARHAM. • 

No, no ! When one thinks of it, it cannot 
have been. And early life never was what it 
now looks. 

AUBIN. 

Pardon me, uncle, but I think it was. 

MARHAM. 

You do ! Then I have not understood you. 

AUBIN. 

Yes, uncle, you have, I think. "What I said, 
or more certainly, what I meant, was this. Youth 
was what it looks to have been ; but in the spend- 
ing, it never felt what you fancy it did. Ay, 
youth would be something, and a something not 



EUTHANASY. 131 

of this earth, if it were what it feels to you. But 
that would be for a boy to have at ten years of 
age the mind that grows in a man only at seventy. 
To all men, youth would be a little more nearly 
what it looks, if there were more faith in them 
while it is passing. And there is a greatness of 
faith, in which it would be possible for a man to 
wear his old age like a vesture, which unem- 
bodied spirits might, some of them, envy. 

MARHAM. 

Lord ! increase our faith. St. Augustine said, 
that he would not change places with any angel, 
if only he could attain the station assigned to 
man. 

AUBIN. 

O that statical ! And yet when we have 
reached it, and when we are ensphered within it, 
everlastingly, this very day will be a fond mem- 
ory with us. For it will be a pleasure, in the 
city of God, to think how we used to die daily 
in the earth. These are our latter days, and the 
ends of the world are upon us now ; but in heaven 
any recollection of our present feelings will be a 
zest to our immortality, and 'what will make us 
look up to God and thank him. 

MARHAM. 

And for me, this may be before the year ends 
its round. 



132 ETJTHANASY. 

AUBIN. 

It is more likely to be for me, uncle ; that is, if 
I am worthy of heaven on my dying. And for us 
both it will be before Saturn finishes one' circuit 
more. And then we shall be untouched by what is 
planetary, — by heat and cold, and the changes of 
day and night. And the light of the sun and moon 
will be nothing to us when we are citizens of the 
New Jerusalem ; and on our becoming immortal, 
days and years, the shadow that moves on the 
face of the dial, the hammer that strikes the hour, 
and the marvellous clock-work of the stars them- 
selves, all will be nothing to us. 

MARHAM. 

And then the last enemy will be nothing to us ; 
for death we shall have undergone, and found to 
be birth. O God ! may our certainty of what 
death will prove to be strengthen us against what 
it seems to be. 

AUBIN. 

And it ought to do so. For in itself life was 
better than what it felt in our passing through. In 
your youth, uncle, no doubt you were troubled 
about many things, and you took more thought 
about the morrow than was right, and you were as 
anxious as though of your life you had the whole 
guidance, and God had none ; and so, through 
littleness of faith, the eyes of your understanding 
were withholden, so that you could not see things 



EUTHANASY. 133 

about you as they might have been seen, and 
as they look now that you have passed through 
them. 

MARHAM. 

Now I see them beautiful with the light of God 
about them ; but that light I had little feeling for 
once. Ay, and I must remember that in these 
old days of mine the light of God is on all things 
round me, as much as it ever was. Faith, more 
faith, is my great want. The Lord is my sal- 
vation ; why or what should I fear ? 

ATJBIN. 

I will think of the past, and so be brave for 
time to come. Adversities laid hold of me, but 
I said, Whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth ; 
and so they became angels with me unawares. 
And moving in remembered scenes, what are 
those forms I see so beautiful and smiling, and 
with the light of heaven shining from them ? 
They are friends, who, the last time I saw them, 
were bodies wasted and convulsed ; rather, so 
they seemed to me to be ; but now they are to 
me what in their agonies they were just becom- 
ing, — they are saints of heaven. Sufferers they 
were, and now they are saints ; and so I think of 
them, though at first after losing them my thoughts 
of them were as painful as their last days were. 
It is not the past has changed, but myself; for I 
judge of it more wisely now than I did. 



134 EUTHANASY. 

MARHAM. 

Even while passing, life was more beautiful than 
we know of ; and so, in coming, death, without 
doubt, is diviner than we feel. 

ATJBIN. 

Week by week I am nearer the end of my life, 
and time pushes me on towards death, out of one 
day into another. But after prayer in an evening, 
I have a thought that comes into my mind with a 
feeling as though it were sent ; and it calms me 
with a peace not of this world, and it says to me, 
"It is through night that the day begins anew, and 
it is through death that life will be thine afresh." 
Misfortunes seem to call to me from places where 
I met them, " Evils we were at the first look, but 
in thine eye of faith we changed into ministers of 
God ; and so will death." And there are solemn 
seasons, in which, from heaven, holy and departed 
friends make their witness felt within me, "Our 
last agonies did but make us immortal ; for death 
is Christ's, and Christ is God's." 



EUTHANASY. 135 



CHAPTER XV. 

Now this is why, in my old age, 

No sorrow clouds rhy brow, 
No grief comes near me, and no cares 

Disturb me here below. 
Serenity broods o'er my mind, 

For I daily pray to Heaven, 
That when the hour of death arrives 

My sins may be forgiven. 
No anxious fears disturb my breast, 

My days serenely roll; 
I tarry till it pleaseth God 

To heaven to take my soul. —Jean Michel. 

AUBIN. 

There are some who grow to be men, and 
almost old, without the knowledge of suffering. 
And their thanks to God are for their many 
pleasures ; and for their sorrows, when they come 
to thank him, they are not the men they were. 
For, in the mean while, they have eaten of the 
tree of the knowledge of good and evil, and found 
Eden vanish from about them, and the world feel 
like thorns, and thistles, and dust, and a curse. 
And there are some who do not get the better of 
this sense of desolation ; for they are angered by 
it, and not humbled. But those who, having lost 
the feeling of Eden, get that of earth's being 
Gethsemane, soon find life rise heavenwards under 



136 . EUTRA.NASY. 

them, like a Mount of Olives ; and when they 
look up on high in the thought of Christ's ascen- 
sion, heavenly longings rise within them ; and 
their souls clouds cannot darken any longer, and 
what is commonly the darkest of all is to them a 
cloud of glory, for it is what will receive their 
souls out of earthly sight. 

MARHAM. 

Yes, sometimes a man may be thirty or forty 
years old before his first grief; and when it does 
come, what a change it makes in the tone of his 
mind ! 

ATJBIN. 

A great change, if the sufferer proves to be a 
saint ; and a great one, too, if the sufferer becomes 
a reprobate concerning the faith. For affliction 
separates men to the right and to the left, like 
Christ from the throne of his glory. For I have 
known some who seemed to worship God zeal- 
ously ; but it was not the true God, but the God of 
their good fortunes. What they worshipped in 
was founded upon the sands of pleasure ; and so, 
when the floods of misfortune came, their temple 
fell ;» and then they said there is no God. 

MARHAM. 

Instead of saying, as they ought to have said, 
" Mine was an idol, and God Almighty pardon 
me the wrong worship." Ever more and more 
do I myself thank God, — God ! I do thank 






EUTHANASY. 137 

thee for what troubles I have had ; they were 
touchstones of my faith, and now they help to as- 
sure me of heaven. And yet, — O God ! in 
merciful affliction let thy will be done upon me, if 
unknowingly I am serving thee for wages and not 
for love. Oliver, I have been thinking of what 
we talked about two or three days ago. And it 
seems to me that old age is meant to be a further 
and a last chance for those who have not been 
made wise before. 

AUBIN. 

There are those whose minds are so small, that 
this world is enough for them, as it would seem. 
To a man of this character who is a tradesman, 
the earth was made for his shop to stand on, and 
to be a street for his customers to come up ; and 
to him life is a long market-day, and the safety of 
a bank is in the place of Providence ; and his 
sorrow for a bad bargain is an anxiety greater 
than ought to be felt for any thing else but sin. 
And sinful his state of mind is become, for it is 
without God. And now memory, calculation, 
activity, fail him ; and so his love of trading fails. 
And now he says, " I thought existence had 
been a mart for trading on, but it is not, though 
it is only so I have used it. Lord, have mercy 
onrae!" 

MARHAM. 

Better late than never, infinitely better. But 



138 EUTHANASY. 

it is sad to see a man begin to serve God only 
because he cannot serve Mammon any longer. 
That is more melancholy than seeing a man's 
faculties fail. Though the decay of the mind is 
very distressing to witness. To know that very 
probably your own or some friend's mind will be 
enfeebled by old age 

ATJBIN. 

Mind, mind enfeebled ! Body you mean, dear 
uncle. Mend the decaying body, and the mind 
would show itself again. It is not the soul, but 
only the manifestation of it, that fails with the 
brain. My hands are palsied, and I cannot use 
them ; but my mind is as lively as ever. My 
brain is torpid, and is useless for thinking ; but 
my soul may be the same as ever. An aged 
relative of mine had been childish for many years, 
and knew none of her family. But for an hour 
or two before she died, she was herself again. 
And she knew all her friends, and asked after her 
absent children. And through her watery eyes 
and blank expression, her soul looked out on the 
world again as loving, and knowing, and peaceful 
as ever. That I myself saw. 

MARHAM. 

In her body, some change against death had 
excited her brain a little, I suppose. 

AUBIN. 

And made what was not brain be brain, and 
what her soul could make itself felt in. 



EUTHANASY. 139 



IMARHAM. 
For years she had been imbecile, do you say ? 
AUBIN. 
Yes, uncle. Of the day of her life the latter 
part was as dark as night ; but it was with fog and 
clouds, not with an extinguished sun. For in the 
evening, the sun of her reason was seen again, 
and seen to have been always shining in itself, 
though not into the world. 

MARHAM. 

Why, why, — what can be the reason, — this, 
of the soul's being allowed to be so eclipsed ? 

AUBIN. 

There are many good reasons for it, I have no 
doubt 

MARHAM. 

Dear Oliver, I do not 



ATJBIN. 

It is a great thing for us to be made sure some- 
times, that, though the soul is darkened, it is not 
put out. And if we see for ourselves that the 
soul can be eclipsed, and yet shine on again, then 
we can so easily trust how the shadow of death will 
pass over it, if righteous, only to leave it shining 
forth as the sun in the kingdom of our Father. 

MARHAM. 

Thank you, Oliver. But I was going to say, 
that I had asked just now what I should not ; 
perhaps it was more my feeling which was wrong, 



140 ETTTHANASY. 

than what I said. For it is better to trust in the 
goodness of what God does with us, than for us 
to be anxious about what his purpose is. Yet, 
Oliver, do you know it sometimes feels as though 
it would be a relief to me to know what certainly 
are the uses of old age which God intends ? 

ATJBIN. 

In regard to old age, I think what you have 
been saying. I think that there is a purpose in 
it, and a privilege higher than our thoughts, and 
above what we could have understood from the 
Son of God, if he had spoken about it. 

MARHAM. 

Age makes leisure for reflection, whether we 
wish it or not. 

ATJBIN. 

The years of old age are stalls in the cathedral 
of life in which for aged men to sit, and listen, 
and meditate, and be patient till the service is 
over, and in which they may get themselves ready 
to say Amen at the last, with all their hearts, and 
souls, and strength. 

MARHAM. 

And so to depart in peace. Old age has been 
called a disease of the body, and perhaps it is ; 
but very certainly it ought to be consecration of 
the soul. Oliver, you are looking for something. 
What is it you want ? 



EUTHANASY. 141 

AUBIN. 

O, I can do without the book. I will tell you 
a saying of Martin Luther's. He said, that God 
assembles to himself a Christian church out of little 
children ; for that when a little child dies, of one 
year old, that always one — yes, two — thousand 
die with it, of that age or younger ; but that when 
he himself, who was sixty-three, should die, there 
would not be a hundred of his age die with him ; 
and that he believed that old people live so long 
in order that they may see the tail of the Devil, 
and be witnesses that he is such a wicked spirit. 

MARHAM. 

I would sooner believe that men. live to be old 
so as to know for themselves the truth of the text, 
that even to our old age God is the same, and that 
even to hoar hairs he will carry us. 

AUBIN. 

Age does for the whole character what can be 
done for it in youth only by one adversity on one 
side, and by another on another. Even with the 
best man, rule is apt to run to self-will, and high 
health to self-reliance, and knowledge to pride, 
and unblemished morals to self-satisfaction. But 
when the man grows old, he finds age to be a cor- 
rective of all this. His sight and hearing fail, and 
so he has to rely on the eyes and ears of persons 
about him. His memory fails, and so he has to 
depend on other men's recollections. His body 



142 EUTHANASY. 

leans, — ay, and so would his soul, and be bowed 
quite down, only that, as he grows weaker, he 
feels more and more a divine arm about him up- 
holding him. And upon that arm he leans, and 
the more lovingly the longer he lives. 

MARHAM. 

There is good, Oliver, there is great good, in 
old age ; more and more I hope to know of it for 
myself. 

ATJBIN. 

The ancients might call old age sad, but that is 
what we Christians ought not to do. And if about 
any old man there are things that might sadden 
nim a little, let him be a Christian, and his melan- 
choly will be changed into what will be like a gen- 
tle prayer, always rising from within his soul. In 
a sermon which I once wrote 

MARHAM. 

A sermon, you said ? 

AUBIN. 

Yes, uncle ; I thought once of writing and pub- 
lishing some ten or twelve sermons on the relig- 
iousness of daily life, but I only wrote one. 

MARHAM. 

I should like to see it, Oliver. 

AUBIN. 

You shall have it, uncle, this evening. 



■ 



EUTHANASY. 143 



CHAPTER XVI. 

Where there is no vision, the people perish. — Prov. xxix. 18. 

This text was a proverb once, and its meaning 
was accurately known a hundred generations ago ; 
but now it is not, and it never will be known quite 
exactly ; for this proverb is a something of the 
spirit, and the world of spirit is not to be scruti- 
nized like that of matter. 

From a few marks studied upon limestone, 
from a few rocky appearances, from a few fossils 
and bones, and other like proofs, will a man, after 
the manner of Baron Cuvier, rightly infer what 
this earth was before it became what it now is ; 
what its climate was and its plants, and what the 
aspect of its forests ; how the mammoth looked 
and moved amid tall trees, and in and out of their 
shadow how there went creeping things innumer- 
able and monstrous ; at what swiftness the bird of 
prey flew upon its victims, and what its victims 
were ; how it rained then as it rains now, and 
how the tide rippled on the sea-shore then as it 
ripples now, and how the shells were mostly then 
what are not to be found now. And the look of 



144 EITTHANASY. 



what all this was, science will make out from a 
few vestiges. 

And vestiges of ancient thought the book of 
Proverbs is. Our text is one of these spiritual 
remains, and for us it has a meaning plain enough, 
though perhaps not exactly what the author 
meant ; because what his state of mind was in 
thinking it we do not know, for at that time the 
human mind was under another economy than the 
Christian. 

u Where there is no vision, the people perish." 
There may be hidden meaning in these words, 
perhaps, but there is plain truth. Most of the 
Proverbs are easy to be understood, though some 
of them are of no use in our English circum- 
stances, and some others are too shrewd for Chris- 
tian simplicity. But all of them are interesting as 
spiritual remains. Vestiges they are of an era in 
the human mind, long, long back ; words of cau- 
tion, spiritual armour, fashioned for the use of the 
young in the anxious minds of experienced sages ; 
proved advice for behaviour in the house, the 
city, and the field ; and immortal truths which 
wise men coined out of their mortal sufferings. 

" Where there is no vision, the people perish." 
Whence came this proverb among the Jews, for 
had not they their prophets always, and visions 
always ? No, for the school of the prophets in 
Ramah was sometimes attended in vain ; and as 






EUTHANASY. 145 



in the latter days of Eli, the priest, often there was 
no open vision. And why was it, at any time, 
that the prophets could " find no vision from the 
Lord " ? It was because the people had disabled 
themselves for such grace, and not because God 
was changeable, as some of them thought, and so 
withheld his free spirit from them. God never 
withdrew from them who had Abraham to their 
father; but withdraw from Him they did, not over 
Jordan, but farther still, down the steeps of vice, 
into that thick air of sensualized thought, which 
hardly a ray of spiritual light can shine into. 

Among the Jews, when there was no vision, 
they perished, and with ourselves spiritual ruin is 
very common, for want of spiritual insight. Spir- 
itual insight into life is the subject of this sermon. 

I. Let us think about life as activity. In God 
you live and move and have your being. That 
not a breath do you draw, nor a pulse do you 
feel, nor a step do you take, but in dependence 
on another will besides your own, — this you do 
not doubt. Nor can you doubt, that in God your 
spirits live, as far as they live at all ; for like the 
church of Sardis, they may have a name that 
they live, and be dead. 

Our human is no empty existence. The cir- 
cumstances of our lives are not unmeaning, but 
infinitely otherwise ; but this we very often do not 
see for want of vision. High as heaven and wide 
10 



146 EUTHANASY. 

t 

as the earth is the atmosphere of holy opportunity, 
in which our souls have their being. Is not it felt ? 
Then it is only because it is not wished. 

Not every hour, nor every day, perhaps, can 
generous wishes ripen into kind actions ; but 
there is not a moment that cannot be freighted 
with prayer. But do you say that you cannot 
pray except when night solemnizes your spirits, 
or before the day's business begins ? Begins the 
disorder of your souls ; say that, and so you finish 
your excuse. But do you establish it ? No. 
For that would be unchristian business, and to be 
shunned like hell itself, that could not be done in 
a quiet, loving, and devout spirit. 

What ! you have perverse wills to deal with, 
have you ? And these evils you do not, some of 
you, overcome with goodness, but oppose with 
heat. Firmness, principle, do you call it ? But 
it is not. For be sure of this, that, in any cir- 
cumstances, a right temper towards your fellow- 
creatures is what would any moment pass freely 
into prayer. Do you object, then, that business 
is not and cannot be made religious ? Theologi- 
cal it cannot be made, but religious it ought to 
be. Do you say that labor can be executed 
rightly, only by minding it and thinking of nothing 
else ? But is not it done sometimes sulkily, and 
sometimes cheerfully ? And cannot it also be 
done trustfully ? And would it be done any the 



EUTHANASY. 147 

less thoroughly, if the laborer felt himself some- 
thing better than a machine, if the ploughman felt 
himself more than a continuation of the plough- 
handle as he holds it, and if he were glad at being 
a worker together with God, — God in the ele- 
ments, and himself in the flesh ? Does any one 
still contend that in trade a man cannot be spiritu- 
ally-minded, and that in the throng of domestic 
cares the spirit is quenched, and does not and can- 
not live ? Then the old anchorites were right in 
retiring from town and home into solitude. For 
is not this the worst thing possible, and the most 
horrible, to be without God in the world ? 

To be born in heathen ignorance of God is the 
worst misfortune. But, whether in a counting- 
house, or handling tools, or busied with domes- 
tic employments, to remain in circumstances that 
close the avenues of. the soul against God's Holy 
Spirit, — and this through nearly the whole of six 
days out of seven, and therefore through nearly 
the whole of life, — this is not misfortune, if it is 
what we know ; for it is crime. Crime those 
early anchorites felt it, and so they left their 
homes and their old places of business and pleas- 
ure. And criminality there is in us, if we are 
living large portions of time in a way that is with- 
out God. But in all probability it is not what 
we have to do, but it is our spirits, that want 
changing. And they may be so changed, and be 



148 EUTHANASY. 

made so familiar with loftier views of life, and so 
eager after righteousness, that, in the field, and the 
shop, and the house, what is now a monotony of 
work for them may itself become an exercise unto 
godliness. 

God forces man to toil, and it is well; because, 
without life were laborious, much of what is best 
in it would never be. But in exertion there is 
what is not often thought of. This less-heeded 
virtue of it I will now speak of. 

There are kinds of action that are specially 
favorable to the formation of a good character ; 
such as relieving those who are in want, risking 
life in good causes, and devoting one's days to 
such works as are, like virtue, their own reward, 
all unrewarded else. But the merest toil, the 
merest muscular exertion, draws character out and 
helps to fix it. Every stroke of the hammer on 
the anvil hardens a little what is at the time the 
temper of the smith's mind ; if blasphemous, he 
is morally the worse for working ; but if hopeful, 
trustful, then, though the blow rings only on the 
iron, it is a blow for goodness, and it is struck 
against sin and on the side of God ; and because 
struck in the faith and cheerfulness of the man's 
soul, his faith and cheerfulness are in that way 
exerted, though indirectly ; and so those divine 
feelings are strengthened in him a little. The toil 
of the ploughman furrows the ground, and so it 



EUTHANASY. 149 

does his brow with wrinkles, visibly ; and invisi- 
bly, but quite as certainly, it furrows the current 
of feeling common with him at his work into an 
almost unchangeable channel. 

What exertion a man makes from day to day 
makes intenser his ordinary mood. It makes 
the sensual man more brutish still ; and him in 
whom there is little vision it makes still blinder 
to God and goodness, and what life is ; while at 
hard work, along with deep breath the saint draws 
in holiness. 

The monks of old knew that, for willing per- 
sons, there is a religious use even in manual labor. 
It was a saying with one of the fathers of the 
Church, and with some monasteries was a motto, 
that to work well is to pray well. 

Bodily exertion makes mental earnestness ; — 
earnestness in what you will, — what you choose 
to let your working mood be. Be discontented 
with your lot in life, — in other words, be dissatis- 
fied with God, — commonly work in that state of 
feeling, and then every day your mind will dark- 
en, and every effort of your arm will help to rivet 
on your soul the chains of perdition. Chains of 
perdition ! The metaphor does but hide the truth. 
For your soul's godless, joyless temper is itself 
perdition ; and the stripping your soul of the flesh 
would itself leave you in hell. 

What ! hell for what is hardly called a crime, 



150 ETJTHANASY. 

— for what is less than fraud, lust, and falsehood ! 
But with no joy and peace in believing, is a mind 
guiltless ? and shut against the Holy Spirit, is not 
a soul sinful ? In the vision of judgment in the 
Revelation, St. John counts as the victims of the 
second death, the abominable, and murderers, and 
whoremongers, and idolaters, and all liars. But 
these are not all whom he names ; there are two 
other classes, and in his mention of them they 
precede the abominable and the murderer, and 
these are the fearful and the unbelieving.- They 
are the first in St. John's list of the wicked, and 
theirs is the state of mind in which all wickedness 
begins. Murder, lust, lying, are manifestations 
of an evil spirit ; of which evil spirit the very es- 
sence is unbelief. Passion throws a shade against 
the sun of righteousness, and in that eclipse the 
benighted man sins ; for no man ever did wrong, 
feeling full faith in God the while. 

Quite away from all feeling of God no man 
ever quite escapes ; and into the most darkened 
spirit a few rays of the Divine Majesty will flash. 
And most persons are accessible to religious in- 
fluences for an hour or two on Sunday, and for a 
few minutes on other days. But this does not 
show religious character, but only religious capa- 
city. The cheater and the debauchee have times 
of mournful longing for their lost innocence. But 
this does not show that they are virtuous, but 



EUTHANASY. 151 

only that they are capable of becoming so. And 
so with many a one, his regular prayers betoken, 
not that he is religious, but that he might be so if 
he were to will it. The holy spirit is a spirit, 
and not one mood of the mind ; it is not sabbat- 
ical, but daily ; it is not a morning and an even- 
ing temper, but a perpetual presence in us. 

O, there is a spirit that Christians have, that 
makes domestic and mechanical work be more 
devout than what service often a priest per- 
forms ; making it be done heartily, as unto the 
Lord, and not unto men. There is a spirit that 
is quickened, and not quenched, by vexations ; a 
spirit of forgiveness, enforced, and free, and re- 
joicing : for he that is forgiving in this world is 
blessedly conscious of being himself forgiven in 
another world, and for ever. And no one ever 
hushes what he might think his just anger into 
silence, without feeling that there is another life 
dwelling in his little life, — God in his soul. And 
so in his soul he has the peace of God rise and 
spread over what would otherwise have been the 
disorder of his passions. Most lives are thronged 
with anxieties; but there is a- spirit that is not 
overcome of these things, but that bears with them 
in the high thought of being in fellowship with 
God ; for if we have to endure evils, God bears 
with their existence too. 

Whether or not this Christian spirit is his, ev- 



152 EUTHANASY. 

ery one knows and cannot but know. Now this 
spirit is being, strengthened within you, or it is 
being shut out from you, in every thing you do, 

— by the pleasures you take, and the labors you 
undertake. You are capable of being, and some 
time you may will to be, what as yet only your 
enthusiasm thrills to in a hymn, or some better 
hour now and then ; but you are yourself what 
your common mood is, and that only ; and that 
mood is made more abiding in you by every yes 
and no of your speaking, and by whatever use 
you make of your hands. 

II. Let us now consider what is the spiritual 
effect upon us of the outer world. The sights 
and sounds of nature stream into our minds, a 
force for good to the good soul, and for evil to 
the soul that is evil. Nor is this so strange, if we 
think on some experiences of our own. Perhaps 
with us ah there have been mysterious seasons, 

— summer evenings, oftenest, — in which all na- 
ture about us has felt instinct with meaning ; when 
our spirits have thrilled into the same tone with 
the wind in the tree-tops, and rock, and river, and 
the distant stars have felt as though struggling with 
their dumbness for speech with us. 

There is some incitement of nature upon us 
nearly always, perhaps, though we may not know 
of it. Like our bodies, our souls are affected 
by gloom and sunshine, day and night, summer 



EUTHANASY. 153 

and winter. For instance, a bright day makes us 
decided in our minds, and it shines precision into 
our purposes. While in the evening we may 
notice that it is with some states of our spirits as 
it is with some plants, which flower only in the 
night-time. With the twilight our hearts begin to 
soften, but in what way, darkness has nothing to 
do with. For while one man is softened into 
pure affection by the evening, another has his 
feelings relax into debauchery. 

Also, when the limiting world is shaded from 
our eyes, the feeling of the infinite is freer within 
us, and it blends with our other feelings and 
makes them stronger, and passionately full ; and 
so our spirits feel sublimed by the awfulness of 
night, and the world around us is transfigured ; 
and so much so, that to our altered mood vice it- 
self is altered, and is not the odious thing of mid- 
day, but a fruit, forbidden indeed, but hanging still 
on the tree of knowledge, and not fallen into the 
common mire of sensualism. And so damnation 
is often plucked and eaten under the spell of 
night, by those who would never have so sinned 
in the day. Never have so acted the sin, is the 
truth ; for the sinfulness itself must have been in 
them before, because outward circumstances do 
not make any feeling in us, they only quicken it. 
And often a good man will thrill with holy zeal 
from the same cause that makes another man's 



154 EUTHANASY. 

heart throb only with selfish anxiety. Thus, too, 
night does not appear one thing to one man, and 
another to another ; for it has the same look to 
every human eye ; but it has not the same feeling 
to every spirit, but much otherwise. For in 
many things our souls feel only what they are 
ready to feel. And so darkness is to one per- 
son like the shadow of God's hand upon the 
earth, and under it he rejoices with trembling ; 
while another man feels it like a disguise to walk 
in, and he loves it better than light, only because 
his deeds are evil. 

To the evil-disposed, the whole world is a 
temptation ; and all the changes in it are so many 
vicious allurements ; and the very voice of nature 
is turned into fleshly suggestions. While, to a 
Christian, nature is as pure as her Maker, and is 
full of his expression. David's feelings may be 
ours. May be ? They must be. They will 
be ours, if in this world of God's we are God's 
children ; and we shall feel how the heavens do 
declare the glory of our God, and how the earth 
is full of his goodness. Yes, there is a state of 
mind in which God's presence everywhere is 
what is felt, as well as known, and in which the 
Maker of heaven and earth is more than a devout 
phrase, — is a living reality, a felt Godhead, the 
indwelling spirit of the green earth and the fiery 
stars. 



EUTHANASY. 



155 



Only let us love God, and then nature will 
compass us about like a cloud of divine witness- 
es ; and all influences from the earth, and things 
on the earth, will be ministers of God to do us 
good. The breezes will whisper our souls into 
peace and purity ; and in a valley, or from a hill- 
top, or looking along a plain, delight in beauti- 
ful scenery will pass into sympathy with that in- 
dwelling though unseen spirit, of whose presence 
beauty is everywhere the manifestation, faint, in- 
deed, because earthly. Then not only will the 
stars shed us light, but they will pour from heaven 
sublimity into our minds, and from on high will 
rain down thoughts to make us noble. God 
dwells in all things ; and felt in a man's heart, 
he is then to be felt in every thing else. Only 
let there be God within us, and then every thing 
outside us will become a godlike help. 

In the morning, we shall wake up to work 
"while it is called to-day," and more deeply 
every night will darkness solemnize our spirits ; 
and the four seasons, as they change, spring into 
summer, and autumn into winter, will ripen our 
little faith into "joy and peace in believing"; 
and every year, more and more clearly, the world 
will be for us " a glass, in which we all with open 
face, beholding the glory of the Lord, shall be 
changed into the same image from glory to glory, 
even as by the spirit of the Lord." 



156 EUTHANASY. 

III. Of action in life and of the scenery of 
life we have thought ; now let us think of partici- 
pation in life, — of life as shared with others. 

" He that loveth not his brother abideth in 
death"; so wrote the Apostle John; and thus 
Jesus Christ said: — "I say unto you, Love 
your enemies." But out of the circle of our ac- 
quaintance, and beyond those to whom we can 
reach a gift with our hands, what is Christian lov- 
ing ? It is not merely not hating, as the common 
notion is, but it is spiritual sympathy. 

"What is my neighbour's misfortune to me ? 
for he was no friend of mine." So says Re- 
spectability. And what said William Hazlitt, 
who dared to speak out many things that most 
men feel, but only few confess ? Now Hazlitt 
was a kind-hearted man, and yet he has written 
that men never hear of the ill-fortune of their 
friends without being secretly pleased. And with 
Christian exceptions, this is a thing to be believ- 
ed. For perfect friendship is impossible in any 
but a Christian spirit. It is not to be felt out of 
social instinct only, joined though it may be to 
intellectual refinement and a quick sense of honor. 
This is the friendship of the world, and it is what 
may be enmity with God. 

Man, the child of God, may be a true friend, 
but not the man of Hazlitt's observatior, not the 
man of the world, not a man merely, though thor- 
oughly, well educated. 



EUTHANASY. 157 

There is pleasure in the sight of the same faces 
day by day ; and so there is in the intimacy of 
those who can be helpful to one another, as they 
contrive and labor in the'same corner of the earth ; 
but for true friendship, the world must be felt as 
something more than a workshop ; it must be the 
busy porch of infinity. 

This is the feeling that perfects friendship ; and 
it is what perfects that love which is the fulfilling 
of the law. Sympathy, fellow-feeling with one 
another as spirits, immortal spirits, — this makes 
the temper, which, when it has opportunity, does, 
and is glad to do, good unto all men ; which re- 
joices with them that do rejoice, and weeps with 
them that weep. Is this our mind ? For if it is 
not, we are perilously wrong. Our state is not 
only not right, but it is what gets worse every 
day. 

It is not enough for a man to love his family 
tenderly ; it is not enough for him to love a friend 
or two, so as to be willing to halve his property 
with them ; and to the poor, it is not enough for 
him to give alms, for this the Pharisees did, and 
freely ; and domestic love and friendly attachment 
a man may feel who bitterly hates his enemies. 

Christian love not only relieves a poor man's 
nakedness and hunger, but it strengthens his soul 
with sympathy ; and domestic and friendly affec- 
tion it sublimes out of capricious instinct into a 



158 EUTHANAS"X. 

feeling, which, for an unfailing fountain, has the 
depth of infinity itself, and for brightness, God's 
smile upon it, and for warmth, hopes that glow 
with immortality. 

God ! of what grandeur this life of ours is made 
capable ! In the eye of faith, what a glory it 
often wears ! Spiritually we are what we will be, 
and the meanest of us may have a day such as 
kings and prophets longed for once, but never 
saw. For now God is known in Christ, and now 
in Christ our spiritual nature is regenerate, larger 
in capacity, and richer in opportunity, and what 
may become in all of us that which Jesus felt, as 
he prayed, " I in them, and thou in me, that they 
may be made perfect in one." 

Look at the life of a saint. It is honorable 
and beautiful outwardly, but inwardly it is nobler 
still ; just as behind the very brightness of the 
stars is hidden the exceeding and indwelling maj- 
esty of God. In the heart of a saint, how sweetly 
all his anxieties are soothed into peace, mysterious 
and " not as the world giveth "! No, not as the 
world giveth ! For when heaven and earth shall 
have passed away, that peace will have outlived 
the disorder it controlled among the passions, and 
will have hushed for the soul her fears for a per- 
ishing universe. 

In the mind of a saint, there is not a thought 
but has the most wonderful relations. It is holy, 



EUTHANASY. 159 

because God Most High is holy ; it is solemn 
with the unknown, but fast coming, day of judg- 
ment ; it is self-denying in and through the spirit 
of Christ upon Calvary ; it is trustful with the 
faith of many days' past prayers ; and it is cheer- 
ful with that joy of God with which the whole 
universe is instinct, but which on earth wells up 
nowhere so freely and purely as into a believing 
mind. While over the head of a saint, the mean- 
est cottage has heaven open ; and nigh him always 
is a door to be opened by prayer, and at which 
to ask is to have given him a wealth of goodness, 
and comfort, and assurance of heaven. " For 
every one that asketh receiveth, and he that seek- 
eth findeth." 

Faith is the inspiration of nobleness ; it is the 
strength of integrity ; it is the life of love, and is 
everlasting growth for it ; it is courage of soul, 
and bridges over for our crossing the gulf between 
worldline$s and heavenly-mindedness ; and it is 
the sense of the unseen, without which we could 
not feel God nor hope for heaven. 

Faith is the very life of the spirit ; how shall 
we maintain it, how increase it ? By living it. 
Faith grows with well-doing. What little faith 
you have, only live it for one day, and it will be 
stronger to-morrow. Live with your fellow-crea- 
tures as their brother to-day, and to-morrow God 
will be felt by you as your Father in heaven the 



160 EUTHANASY. 

more tenderly. We become children of the High- 
est, through loving like our brethren the dwellers 
of the whole wide earth. And it is a law of our 
spirits, that, in many ways, what we regard others 
as being we ourselves become. 

If you treat another as having no feeling, you 
harden your own heart. If you are suspicious 
commonly, what does your temper betoken ? It 
means that you want faith in goodness. And you 
may allow yourself to doubt your friends so much 
as to have but little faith in God at last, and so 
as yourself to become worse than your own sus- 
picions about your acquaintance. Disinterested 
you cannot continue, nor become, if you are to 
be thinking often as to whether other persons are* 
selfish or not. A man that is in want, you shall 
treat as a suffering brother, and not relieve as a 
beggar, else your own soul shall be beggared of 
delicacy. Here is a fellow-creature in reach of 
your hand, and in want of help, which you could 
give if you would ; now if you do not, it is be- 
cause to you the man is not even as the least of 
Christ's brethren ; and so every time you see 
him, you are spiritually the worse ; for to shut 
the eyes against virtuous opportunity weakens 
virtuous perception. Here is another man whose 
most earnest thoughts are of Mammon, whose 
pleasures are of eating, and drinking, and vanity, 
and whom the world loveth as its own. Now if 



EUTHANASY. 



161 



you have a love for that man that is not pity, 
then 

" His spirit shall have power to weigh thy spirit down." 

Here is a good man who is poor ; now if you 
withhold your regard from his virtue on account 
of his being poor, poor will you yourself grow in 
worth. Here is another fellow-creature ; he is a 
servant of yours, perhaps, and perhaps you feel 
towards him not unkindly, and yet only as though 
he were some contrivance of flesh and blood. 
So much the worse for you, then. For the man 
has a living soul within him, — a soul despairing 
and hopeful, suffering and enjoying, loving and 
-praying, and not without a looking for of judg- 
ment. And some little it is through sympathy 
with his soul that yours is meant to grow. Here 
is some bad or ignorant person within the reach 
of your influence ; now if you are heedless of 
his crown of immortality, then the fine gold of 
your own will grow dim. 

" And he that shuts Love out, in turn shall he 
Shut out from Love, and on her threshold lie, 
Howling in outer darkness. Not for this 
"Was common clay ta'en from the common earth, 
Moulded by God, and tempered with the tears 
Of angels to the perfect shape of man." 

Think of what St. Paul has written, — " We, 
being many, are one body in Christ, and every 
one members one of another." 
11 



162 EUTHANASY. 

This is the manner of our being ; it is of God, 
the way of our spiritual growth now, and perhaps 
for ever ; that morally we make ourselves what 
we treat others as being. 

Yes ! for the spirit, all things have spiritual ef- 
fect. All actions, — such as occur only once in a 
lifetime, and such as make up our daily business, 
and even what are only momentary, — all actions 
are expression, unavoidably. But it is for our- 
selves to will what they shall be expressive of, 
and so strengthen in us, — whether apathy, self- 
will, discontent, sensuality, or a spirit hopeful, and 
cheerful, and loving, and joyful in God. 

Yes ! for the spirit, all things have spiritual 
effect. Nature is an excitement for us, more or 
less, almost always ; but whether for good or evil 
is according to what our spirits are. One man is 
made moody by hearing the winter's wind, while 
another is sublimed by the almightiness that flies 
upon its wings. Silence is a spiritual power to 
feel ; and in it one person feels the more inclined 
to sin, while another man, as it were, hears from 
on high the music of the spheres, known only to 
those who are being taught by virtue 

" How to climb 
Higher than the sphery chime." 

Yes ! for the spirit, all things have spiritual 
effect. Sharing in life, along with others, has. 
Very largely we ourselves become what others 



EUTHANASY. 163 

are to us. If to our regards they are not spirit- 
ual, then we are not spiritual. If others are to us 
living bodies only, then very nearly of the flesh, 
fleshly, we must be. But if in others we honor 
the image of God, then upon our own souls it will 
come out and brighten. Love truly, and then 
other men's souls will be sources of your soul's 
growth. Sympathize with the good in their en- 
deavours, and you will yourself be morally the 
stronger. Revere the wise, and yours will be the 
state of mind into which wisdom comes most free- 
ly. Love little children, and something of their 
innocence will come over your mind, and whiten 
its darker spots. Love them that are old, and 
your soul will be as though the longer experienced 
in life. 

This life that we are living in is not empty of 
power, but full of it, — power that is on us and 
about us always, and into the nature of which we 
have vision given us, that we should not perish. 

Wish to be a child of God ; and then sunshine 
and frost, and friends and enemies, and youth and 
age, and business and pleasure, and all things, will 
help to make you. 



164 EUTHANASY. 



CHAPTER XVII. 

Our many deeds, the thoughts that we have thought, — 

They go out from us thronging every hour ; 

And in them all is folded up a power 

That on the earth doth move them to and fro ; 

And mighty are the marvels they have wrought 

In hearts we know not, and may never know. — F. W. Faber. 



MARHAM. 

I like your sermon, Oliver. Why did not 
you go on with your purpose, and write the vol- 
ume which you meant, on the religiousness of 
daily life ? 

AUBIN. 

Because I became too poor to pay for the 
printing of it. Instead of my making sermons 
to others, I had myself to listen to one every 
day, preached to me out of a stone pulpit, by 
poverty. One day the text was, " It is good 
for a man that he bear the yoke in his youth " ; 
and another day it was, " Man that is born of 
a woman is of few days, and full of trouble " ; 
but on the festival days of the soul, it was, 
" As dying, and behold we live ; as sorrow- 
ful, yet always rejoicing ; as having nothing, 
and yet possessing all things." It was a course 
of sermons that lasted with me a long, long 



i 



EUTHANASY. 165 

time. But I am the better for it. At first, the 
voice of the preacher was distressing to me, 
but my ear got so attuned to it as to hear it like 
a voice, the tones of which God was using to 
talk to me with. And now I am another man 
for what I learned then. I am not the same 
as I was, either in mind or heart, nor in my way 
of expressing myself. So at least I thought, 
on lately looking over the sermon which you have 
been reading. 

MARHAM. 

What I am sorry for is, that you have deserv- 
ed to have a name — — 

AUBIN. 

To be printed in catalogues of old books ; and 
I have not got it. But what does that matter ? 
Why should one covet being forgotten as an au- 
thor as well as a man ? Since nearly all of this 
generation will be forgotten, both the men and the 
books of it. 

MARHAM. 

A few years, a very few years, and of us two 
all that will be left in this earth will be a little 
dust, and in a few men's minds a few distant rec- 
ollections of us. 

AUBIN. 

Ay, in one man there will be a recollection of 
your having shown him a curious book ; on anoth- 
er's tongue there will be some faint after-taste of a 



166 EUTHANASY. 

very good dinner of your giving ; in another, there 
will survive the way you looked in your morning- 
gown ; while in the memory of another, there 
will be living the tones in which you said he was 
a good boy. In men's minds a faint remem- 
brance of us, and, six feet deep in the ground, a 
little blackness in the mould, will be all our re- 
mains in the world. 

MARHAM. 

Then a little while longer, and they will have 
vanished ; and then, ah ! then there will be no 
trace left of our lives ever having been. 

AUBIN. 

Been what, uncle ? Not spent in vain. 

MARHAM. 

I thought, Oliver, you were saying that we 
should be forgotten soon. 

AUBIN. 

So I did. But I did not mean that our lives 
would ever be unfelt ; for in this world they never 
will be. Babbage says, that, with every word 
spoken, the air vibrates, and the particles of it 
are altered as to their places ; that the winds, 
north, south, east, and west, are affected every 
time I speak ; that, with my voice, the atmos- 
pheric particles in this room have their places 
changed, not so as to be any thing to us, but so 
as, ages hence, to witness to higher minds than 
ours what we have been saying this afternoon. 



EUTHANASY. 167 

MARHAM. 

In that way, there is more truth than was in- 
tended in what came to be used as a Christian 
epitaph, — Non omnis moriar, I shall not, all of 
me, die. For so our idlest words are as lasting 
as the earth. 

AUBIN. 

And so are our actions, and so are our thoughts. 

MARHAM. 

And more lasting than the earth they are ; for 
by them our everlasting souls are the worse or the 
better. 

AUBIN. 

True. But what I mean besides is, that our 
influence will last as long as the earth. 

MARHAM. 

Ours will ! 

AUBIN. 

Yes, and so will any peasant's. Because, of 
course, I do not speak of the endurance of names. 
For they are only one or two persons in a gener- 
ation, and not ten out of a whole people, who 
stand in the sun of life in such a way as to have 
their shadows lengthen down all time. 

MARHAM. 

You mean, then 

AUBIN. 

That my cousins, go where they will, are liv- 
ing impulses in society, and of your beginning. 



168 EUTHANAST. 

And just as there is something of your grand- 
father in you, there is something of you in your 
grandchildren ; and there will be something of 
them, some time, in their children. 

MAKHAM. 

No doubt, men's lives do live on in their de- 
scendants. 

ATJBIN. 

In their flesh and blood, their beating hearts 
and pliant limbs ; but so they do in other ways, 
and in other men. For every good deed of ours, 
the world will be the better always. And perhaps 
no day does a man walk down a street cheerfully, 
and like a child of God, without some passenger's 
being brightened by his face, and, unknowingly to 
himself, catching from its look a something of re- 
ligion, and sometimes, not impossibly, what just 
saves him from some wrong action. 

MARHAM. 

The stream of society is such, that often a 
pebble falling into it has altered its course. 
Many times, words lightly spoken have been car- 
ried against thrones, and been their upsetting. 
And many a little event has had in it what in its 
unfolding filled towns and countries, and men's 
minds, and ages. I say, that, under Providence, 
it has done this. 

ATJBIN. 

An ark of bulrushes fetched from among the 



EUTHANASY. 169 

flags of the Nile was the saving of Moses, and 
the deliverance of the Israelites, and an event 
through which the Saviour of the world was born 
where he was. The way of thinking which St. 
Paul got as a youth influenced his way of view- 
ing and arguing the Gospel as an Apostle of the 
Gentiles, so that when Saul of Tarsus was lis- 
tening at the feet of Gamaliel, it was as though 
the whole Christian Church had sat there. And 
very certainly Augustine would never have been 
heard of in the world so much and so long, and 
even now so reverently, but for his mother, in 
whose warm temperament he shared, and after 
whose earnest prayers on his behalf, year after 
year, he became Christian. 

MARHAM. 

Yes, there have been men of such a character 
and standing as that, through happening to them, 
even slight things have, in their effects, become 
stupendous, and as wide as the world. But we 
were speaking just now of common life and ordi- 
nary men. 

AUBIN. 

And without common men, there could be no 
uncommon ones ; and every extraordinary event 
has its roots in quite ordinary places. Days and 
years are linked together, and so are men's lives, 
by chains of cause and effect, and sometimes cu- 
riously and most wonderfully. So that it is pos- 



170 ETTTHANASY. 

sible, that to-day in a shop what an artisan is 
working at with a song may be the cause — no ! 
one means — of filling a palace with grief fifty 
years hence, and of changing a dynasty. Or one 
word of your speaking to a boy this morning may 
prove to root and thrive in his spirit, like good 
seed, and to become what will bear fruit for a 
whole neighbourhood, and perhaps for a nation, 
and for ages. 

MARHAM. 

That is not a thing that could ever be known. 

ATTBIN. 

Not in this world, perhaps. Nor would it be 
good for us to know such things ; for we are 
weak creatures, and we might get to do what is 
right for the sake of its grand effects, and not for 
its own dear loveliness. But though much of the 
greatness of the life we are living is wisely veiled 
from us, yet we cannot believe too much of it. 
And now, uncle, rays from the stars come mil- 
lions of millions of miles together, and there are 
millions of them in the breadth of an inch, yet 
they are not lost in one another ; and it can be 
told of any one of these rays whether it shines 
from a sun or a planet, or whether from a solid 
or a liquid mass. Man can know this with his 
eye of flesh ; so that it is not impossible that an 
angel may be able to trace a thought out of one 
mind into another, from people to people, and 
down generations. 



ETJTHANASY. 171 

MARHAM. 

It is not so unlikely ; and, Oliver, it is perhaps 
even probable. 

AUBIN. 

Perhaps when death shall make us spirits, the 
spiritual world will be open to us, and all the 
movements in it ; and great thoughts will look 
like angels going from soul to soul ; and noble 
feeling will seem electric, as it spreads ; and some 
words will be echoing for ever, out of the recesses 
of one soul into the chambers of another. 

MARHAM. 

The watchwords of liberty and right. 

AUBIN. 

Hated, and wronged, and blind, and nearly 
friendless, was John Milton, during the latter part 
of his life. His sufferings were great, and so 
was his faithfulness ; and he has sat down in the 
reward of them. And perhaps, now and then, 
he hears from his throne in heaven the refining 
music in men's minds which his poetry makes 
round the earth, unceasingly. I knew a mother, 
who died with her arms round her child, praying 
God, the while, to guard it. And now, along 
her son's path, shining more and more as though^ 
unto perfect day, is to be seen what perhaps 
gladdens her with the certainty that the fervent 
prayer of her righteousness did avail him much. 
And many years hence, there will be to be seen 



172 EUTHANASY. 

among men some little trace of my having lived ; 
and perhaps I shall myself see it. O, that would 
be a tender delight ! It is not impossible, I think. 

MARHAM. 

In heaven every sinner that repents is known 
of; and, very likely, so are the means of his con- 
version ; and if so, then nearly all the holy influ- 
ences there are in Christendom must be known of. 

AUBIN. 

I shall not live long ; nor shall I be in the 
memories of men very long. But out of the 
characters of men I shall never die, quite : no, 
not in many ages. I like the thought of lasting 
on in the earth, any way. It is pleasant to me 
to think even of leaving my body behind me in 
the world. 

MARHAM. 

O, is it ? 

AUBIN. 

Out of this world into another my soul shall go, 
through death. Soon this earth will be to me 
what my body was buried in. My body will rot 
and become dust ; but it will be my dust. And 
always it will be in the earth ; and I like to think 
so. Dear world of my birth, that I am to re- 
member for ever and ever ! I have had pain in 
it often, and pleasure often. And, O, what I have 
learned in it ! God, and Christ, and my immor- 
tality ! And I have got the knowledge of the 
Good, the Beautiful, and the True. 



EUTHANASY. 173 

MARHAM. 

And of Human Brotherhood. 

AUBIN. 

The blood of which God has made all nations 
of the earth is not much felt yet, as being one 
blood. But our having shared in it will be a near 
relationship when we human creatures have scat- 
tered ourselves thinly among the hosts of heaven. 
Then to have been of the same generation will 
be like having been of the same family ; and, 
down long streets of stars, we shall look back upon 
this earth as the little home we all lived in once. 
When I think how I shall remember this world 
after death, sometimes there are moments in which 
I do love the very dust of this dear earth. 

MARHAM. 

I feel so sometimes, Oliver. 

AUBIN. 

Years ago, a beggar and I exchanged looks on 
a road-side, and we have never seen one another 
since; and we never shall again, in this world ; 
but after many ages, perhaps, we shall find our- 
selves standing side by side, looking up at the 
throne of God. 

MARHAM. 

There lies no despised Lazarus at my door ; 
but perhaps I have not searched far enough into 
my neighbourhood. I could help the poor more 
than I do, I think. There are some things, — 



174 EUTHANASY. 

luxuries they may be called, — which I might 
deny myself, and perhaps ought to. I will think 
of this, and to-night I will 

ATJBIN. 

Uncle, are you speaking to me, or only to 
yourself ? for I do not hear you. 

MAK.HAM. 

I was thinking something to myself, and aloud, 
too, I suppose. But, Oliver, go on with what 
you were saying : now, do. 

AUBIN. 

I shall die soon. The hand of God is on me. 
My feelings are not much changed, perhaps ; 
but they are stronger than what they were, I 
think. Now, every man I part from is a soul to 
be met again, and every face I see is what will 
be bright with the light of heaven some time, and 
in my sight. Duty reaches down ages in its ef- 
fects, and into eternity ; and when a man goes 
about it resolutely, it seems to me now as though 
his footsteps were echoing beyond the stars, 
though only heard faintly in the atmosphere of 
this world, because it is so heavy. Yes, dear un- 
cle, and in this way I shall still' hear you, though 
soon you will hear me no more. But often when 
you are doing a good action, you will think 
the light of it is to be seen in heaven, and that 
perhaps I am seeing it. And sometimes after 
your prayers you will think that, some way, I may 






EUTHANASY. 175 

know of them, and perhaps join in some of them ; 
for now and then I may be near the elders spoken 
of in the Apocalypse, as having every one of 
them golden vials full of odors, which are the 
prayers of saints. What, then, is death ? It 
will be a concealment of me from the world, but 
not a hiding of the world from me. Always there 
will be something of me lasting on in the world ; 
and to the end of it the world will be known to 
me in some things, I think. Yes, it certainly will 
be. What is it, then, to die ? It is not to be 
estranged from this life utterly. O, no ! For it 
is to be taken into the bosom of the Father, and 
to feel his feelings for this world, and to look back 
upon it from under the light of his eyes. Death 
is this, and it is beauty and it is peace. 



176 EUTHANASY. 



CHAPTER XVIII. 



Silent rushes the swift Lord 
Through ruined systems still restored, 
Broad-sowing, bleak and void to bless, 
Plants with worlds the wilderness, 
Waters with tears of ancient sorrow 
Apples of Eden ripe to-morrow. — Emerson. 

the heir of all the ages, in the foremost files of time. — Tennyson. 



AUBIN. 

for a day of ancient Greece ! O to have 
been quickened for a week at Rome, in Caesar's 
lifetime ! O that I had had a day with the priests 
of Egypt ! and then I should have known what 
intelligence the Sphinx is meant to look. O to 
have had an hour with the Druids of Stonehenge, 
and so to have learned what soul was in their do- 
ings there ! O for one of the days of the school 
of the prophets at Ramah ! 

MARHAM. 

They are wishes which you would be none the 
better for having, Oliver ; for if they were good, 
they would not be impossible. 

AUBIN. 

1 should like to have had a week at the court 
of Lorenzo de' Medici, and a month at Alexan- 



EUTHANASY. 177 

dria in the second century, and a day or two with 
the sand-diggers at Rome when they were become 
Christians, and were making their excavations in 
the earth, into churches, and tombs, and hiding- 
places against persecution. 

MARHAM. 

They must have been a very interesting class 
of men. 

AUBIN. 

I should like to have had a day's talk with Abe- 
lard. And, O ! I should like much to have been 
a Moor of Granada for a while. Human nature 
I should like to know in all its varieties. I should 
like to be an Italian for a week, and a Norwegian, 
and a Hindoo, and I do not know what else. 

MARHAM. 

Nor I either, to any purpose. For such ex- 
periences would not be of any use, or else God 
would have made them possible. So I think, 
Oliver. 

AUBIN. 

My dear uncle, you are quite right. And be- 
sides, when we look beyond the clothes, and 
deeper than the skin, civilized nations are not so 
very different from one another. Betwixt five 
nations there are not greater diversities than there 
often are in the tempers of any five members of 
an Anglo-Saxon family ; only in the household 
these differences do not seem so great, because 
12 



178 EUTHANASY. 

all the members of it dress alike and are drilled 
into like habits. If a man loves the twenty per- 
sons nearest him, and so sympathizes truly with 
their peculiarities, then with the reading of a few 
books of travels he knows almost as much of hu- 
man nature as though he had been amongst all 
nations. 

MARHAM. 

It is only with our eyes and through telescopes 
that the stars are to be known, and it is by much 
travelling and searching and comparison that the 
various kinds of flowers and plants are to be 
known that grow on the Andes and along the Or- 
egon, in the West Indies and in Australia. But 
it is chiefly out of a loving heart that mankind is 
to be known. There are good men who have 
never been out of their native valleys, who are 
wiser in human nature than thousands are who 
have traversed the world. 

ATJBIN. 

Nearly wise, I would say, they are. They have 
just what is almost wisdom, and what would be 
wisdom at once, with a very little experience of 
men. I have known one or two such persons, and 
in talking with them I was always expecting some- 
thing wiser than what they said. It was as though 
they were always just about to become great. I 
think the state of mind of such persons is what 
will enlarge in heaven, and brighten very fast. 



ETJTHANASY. 179 

MARHAM. 

I quite think that. And in that way many that 
are last now will be first hereafter. 

AUBIN. 

They are seraphs elect, as is sometimes even 
to be felt in talking with them. A man of this 
character I knew once, who was a pauper ; and I 
never saw him without my soul being humbled in 
me. For, in presence of his goodness, I myself 
felt so unworthy ! I assisted him a little, and only 
a little, for I was myself suffering some want at 
the time. But that he should be accepting relief 
from me made me feel that there must be a world 
to come, in which for him and me to be in juster 
places. And when he thanked me, with humble 
words, I trembled in myself, — because it was as 
though, all round me, the universe were calling 
out against me for my enduring to be less of a 
sufferer than he was who was a better man than 
myself. 

MARHAM. 

He must have been a very extraordinary man, 
Oliver, I should think. 

AUBIN. 

So he was, uncle ; and so he is now. He 
became known to a gentleman, by whom he was 
befriended and brought forward in the world, and 
so well, as that he is now a man of station and 
some public repute. In his profession he is very 



180 EUTHANASY. 

eminent ; and he exemplifies, to some extent, the 
truth of what we have been saying. 

S1ARHAM. 

I am so persuaded, Oliver, that, though a man 
can be cunning without a heart, he cannot be wise. 
It is against the Gospel to suppose he can be. 
And humble, humble, we must be, if we would 
know any thing to any spiritual purpose. 

ATJBIN. 

And especially if we would know human na- 
ture ; for one way of learning it is out of our own 
hearts, and they are books that can only be read 
in humility. 

MARHAM. 

Yes, humble we must be, before we can know 
ourselves, and be willing to see that in our own 
hearts are the beginnings of what might be like 
the vices of every nation in the world. 

ATJBIN. 

There is one soul in all us human creatures. 
In my mind are the elements of all other men's 
characters ; and my many moods are so many 
national tempers. In the middle of summer and 
in the heat of the day, now and then, I am a 
Brahmin ; and sometimes in the middle of winter, 
with the wind roaring in the wood, I feel like a 
Scandinavian. A word or two from some one, 
some little event or other happening to me, a little 
bile more or less in my system, the sort of day, 



EUTHANASY. 181 

— sunshiny or foggy, — these things change me ; 
and one day my temperament is of one country, 
and another day it is of another. It is manifold. 
I have in me a Frenchman, a Dutchman, and a 
Spaniard, a German, an Italian, and, alas ! an 
Otaheitan, a savage. 

MARHAM. 

No, Oliver, no. 

AUBIN. 

I am an Egyptian, a Greek, and a Roman. I 
do not look like any one of them ; but that is 
because I am more than any one of them was. 
For what knowledge the priests of Egypt made a 
secret of would be nothing sublime to me. Nay, 
I have no doubt that I have it, — though, out of 
all my treasures, exactly which it is I cannot 
say. For in the schools at Alexandria all the 
wisdom of the Egyptians must have been known ; 
and out of those schools came some of the fa- 
thers of the Church, and many of those ways of 
thinking and feeling that began to obtain among 
Christians in the second and third centuries. For 
at one time Alexandria was the great school, 
the famous university, of the whole world. The 
way the Egyptians were ready to view the Gospel 
has had its effect on the Christianity of every 
nation ; and still it has, and not without having 
caused me some darkness, and so made me sor- 
row, once. 



182 EUTHANASY. 

MARHAM. 

Errors are so lasting in the world ! It makes 
one almost despair. 

AUBIN. 

Despair ! No, uncle, but most firmly hope. 
For then surely truth must be immortal, if, by 
only being a little like her, falsehoods can live 
a thousand years. And truth is immortal ; and 
there is living in me all of it that was known to 
those who were solemn among the sphinxes, and 
thoughtful in the vast temples of Egypt. On one 
of their symbols of the godhead were the words, 
"I am all that was, that is, and that is to come ; 
and no mortal has ever unveiled me yet." This 
was at Sais ; and these were not words to be 
seen and thought of for hundreds of years with- 
out many a person becoming the readier to say, 
" Show us the Father, and it sufficeth us." And 
the way in which educated Egyptians were readi- 
est to view the Gospel affected their understanding 
of it, and so also the interpretation of it by the 
Fathers, who were of the Alexandrian school, 
and so even my own religion a little. 

MARHAM. 

The Christian religion was sadly corrupted by 
that Alexandrian philosophy ; though I think 
Christianity would have had a very much worse 
history, if, in the second and third centuries, the 
preachers of it had been Persian, or merely Ro- 



ETJTHANASY. 183 

man, in those respects in which they were Alex- 
andrian. But, Oliver, we were talking about the 
knowledge of human nature. 

AUBIN. 

So we were, uncle ; but it was with a view to 
seeing that in no age or nation has there ever been 
a day to be envied by us for its brightness. How- 
ever, uncle, what is the wisdom that comes of 
much experience among men ? Is not it the cer- 
tainty that all men are born with hearts very like 
one another ? So that a man who is fit to rule 
knows all kingly feelings without his going up 
the steps of a throne, and sitting down with a 
crown on. 

MARRAM. 

Would you say, then, that any one man under- 
stands all other men ? Hardly, Oliver, that. 

AUBIN. 

For that is what can be said only of " the first- 
born of every creature " ; and of others it is true 
according as they are more or less Christian. 
What I mean is, that if two men are equally 
acute in their faculties, and have had the same ex- 
perience the one as the other, they may still dif- 
fer in their knowledge of human nature ; and if 
they do, it will be because the one is more Chris- 
tian than the other. By no bad man, by no man 
conceited or in any way affected, is the soul of 
man to be known, but only by a good man, a man 



184 EUTHAXASY. 

of love and honesty and holiness, and who has 
made it religion to himself to keep simple in heart 
and manners. This man understands the good ; 
and he knows the bad better than they know one 
another. 

MARHAM. 

Then would you affirm that Shakspeare w T as a 
good man ? 

AUBIN. 

No saint, but a good man he was, certainly. 
But if a saint he had been, he would have been a 
poet of still larger spiritual insight. Sometimes 
I fancy that I can feel this while reading his plays. 
A man of falsehood, or selfishness, or injustice, 
or habitual sensuality, Shakspeare never can have 
been. Measured by the common height of prin- 
ciple among men, he must have been nobly 
minded. And this I believe more surely than if 
I saw it ; for he might have deceived my eyes, 
but through his writings he has put his soul in 
contact with my moral sense. 

MARHAM. 

And is there nothing in him offensive ? 

AUBIN. 

Yes, uncle, there is. And there is to be read 
what is offensive in regard to one writer, at least, 
who is called a saint, and not undeservedly. In 
estimating what Shakspeare was in himself, what 
time he lived in must be remembered. There 



ETTTHANASY. 185 

are stains on his pages, but they are of his age's 
making, and not his own. And we should not 
ourselves have noticed them if we had been of 
his century and his birthplace, or even of the 
court of Elizabeth. 

MARHAM. 

It is just as though we were at her father's 
court, and at other times as though we were along 
with her grandfather, while reading some of Shak- 
speare's plays. 

ATJBIN. 

Yes ; we Englishmen have transmigration of 
souls through Shakspeare. In reading him I am 
of Athens, and I am Timon, and I know and 
scorn what hollo wness is in many men ; then I lay 
down the book, and I am myself again ; but my 
soul is the wiser for having been in Timon 's body 
and lived his latter life. Another time I am 
Hamlet, and sometimes I am Romeo, and King 
John, and King Lear, and Wolsey. I go out of 
one man's mind into another's, into a wider, 
and still widening, experience. 

MARHAM. 

Yes, in Shakspeare you are the man you read 
of for the time. 

AUBIN. 

And so you are the hero, and the saint, and the 
thinker, while reading their lives. The well- 
written lives of great men are things to thank God 



186 EUTHANASY. 

for ; for in reading first one and then another, we 
learn how great we are ourselves, — how much 
there is in us that is unacted and unsaid, for want 
of opportunity, — and how we are, all of us, not 
so much living in this world as getting ready to 
live. 

MARHAM. 

In another world. 

AUBIN. 

Yes, and where there will be no such limits on 
our movements as are about us now, and where 
there will be no fear to chill us, either of enemies 
or friends, or to-morrow, or death. 

MARHAM. 

Thank you, Oliver ; for I like what you have 
been saying. 

AUBIN. 

Sometimes thinking of myself as only one in a 
thousand, it is as though I could not, in the eye 
of God, be any thing ; but then I am what he 
will care for, when I think that in my soul there 
are a thousand unacted lives. Because, in some 
few moments of little faith, one may have misgiv- 
ings for one's self ; but never for a village with a 
thousand inhabitants in it. 

MARHAM. 

And you may say this, too, that one soul is with 
the Lord as a thousand souls, and a thousand 
souls as one soul. 



ETTTHANASY. 187 

ATTBIN. 

That thought is like a lens, uncle. There 
shine through it a thousand rays of light from 
heaven. And it brightens with looking at. Yes, 
it does. Sometimes, when I have thought of 
myself as one of a million persons all unlike one 
another, I have felt, in the sight of Heaven, as 
though I were lost, and nothing. And then, again, 
I have had faith as strong as that of a multitude 
when I have been in a crowded city, and have 
looked up to heaven, feeling along with Words- 
worth 

That we have all of us one human heart. 
MARHAM. 

Yes, one heart, always and everywhere ; now 
in our European civilization, and in the extinct 
spirit of ages past. 

AUBIN. 

Extinct spirit of past ages ! What you say 
chills me, uncle. It is as though the light of my 
own spirit might be put out. 

MARHAM. 

No, no ! Your soul, Oliver, is not to be worn 
away by time. 

AUBIN. 

Nor is the spirit of Rome, nor that of Greece, 
nor that of Egypt, nor that of the Hebrews ; for 
what are those on your shelves ? They are not 
bones from a Greek tomb ; they are the very 



188 EUTHANASY. 

spirit of ancient Greece ; they are what was 
grandest in the mind and to the judgment of 
Plato, and Sophocles, and 

MARHAM. 

Well, in a library here and there, that spirit 
lives. 

ATJBIN. 

And in more libraries now than it ever did in 
men in Greece. 

MARHAM. 

So it does. But in the world it does not live. 



The whole world is this day better than it 
would have been if Greece had not been. I 
need not tell you how the civilization of Greece 
widened into that of Rome, and so over the whole 
world ; and how impossible it is that Grecian 
books should have been read and studied for ages 
by the best minds, without the minds of the whole 
world being the better. In the spirit of ancient 
Greece, the great characteristic was the feeling of 
the beautiful. Now for you to be sure that the 
Greek spirit is living in the world still, I need 
only ask you to think what the history of art has 
been. Some one has said that there is not now a 
sign-board but witnesses, I think, that Rubens 
was a painter. And it is still truer that Greece 
is living, not in colleges only, but in every town, 
and is to be felt in the common talk of men. 



EUTHANASY. 189 

And in our laws, and in half the words we speak, 
Rome is living in us English people. 

MARHAM. 

It is so, Oliver ; it is so. 

AUBIN. 

And so is Judaism ; for in some things we are 
Jews, and rightly, or else we could not be Chris- 
tians. For Christ came not to destroy, but to 
fulfil the law of the prophets. Undestroyed, they 
survive still ; at least the use, the purpose, of 
them does. Of Jewish opinions, and Grecian 
feeling, and Roman manners, it is none of the 
truth, but only the falsehood, that has perished. 
All the truth of them is in the human mind now, 
and is everlasting. And myself, I am of Egypt, 
of the time of even the earlier Pharaohs ; and I 
am more than an Egyptian, for I am a Greek ; 
and I am more than a Greek, for I am a Hebrew ; 
and I am more than a Hebrew of the Hebrews, 
for I am a Christian. 

MARHAM. 

I like your idea, Oliver, very much. 

AUBIN. 

It is what makes me consciously immortal. I 
am of many ages past, so that it is not for me to 
fear perishing in a day. And on my very death- 
day I only can seem to perish. Before the world 
was, God had me in his mind ; and with being 
shut out of his mind what shall frighten me ? 



190 ETJTHANASY. 

Not death. For not a sparrow shall fall to the 
ground without my Father. 

XARHAM. 

What a saying that was of Christ's ! It filled 
the woods and the air with witnesses of Provi- 
dence. 

ATTBIN. 

My body* will be dust ; but desolation and ruin 
are the buildings of iAthens, yet the spirit of 
Greece lives on, as I myself feel, and that most 
blessedly ; for so, out of my own experience, I 
can trust in being myself immortal when disem- 
bodied. 

MARHAM. 

Yes, what Greece was must be living on in the 
human mind as inspiration and unsuspected wis- 
dom. But in ancient statues, and in the engrav- 
ings of Greek ruins, Greece is everywhere pres- 
ent, so as to be looked at. Lycian and Xan- 
thian marbles have been brought to London from 
amongst bushes and trees ; and not by chance, I 
think, — no, not by chance. The bringing of 
Grecian remains to England seems, under Provi- 
dence, like the gathering up of the fragments of 
ancient civilization for nothing to be lost. 

AT7BIN. 

In the Campagna, near Rome, the shepherds 
live in old tombs 



EXJTHANASY. 



191 






MARHAM. 

Horrible lodgings they would have been for an 
old Roman ; but not so for those who have faith 
in Christ. 

AUBIN. 

Ay, and with our larger souls, if we had been 
Romans, the world itself would have felt like a 
tomb, to live in ; and the earth would have been 
to us a mere floor, for nations to be laid under. 
Life, to look at, is mortality from moment to 
moment ; but it is not so to us, because there is 
plan, there is purpose, there is hope, to be felt in 
it. And there is not a thought of ancient wis- 
dom — 

MARHAM. 

Yes, this life is lit up with the manifest pres- 
ence of God in it, for those the eyes of whose 
understandings are not blinded. And to feel the 
presence of God is to feel his spirit and ours for 
ever related. 

AUBIN. 

It is so, dear uncle. And, indeed, for a Chris- 
tian, every thing human is suggestive of immortal- 
ity. The kingly form of David has been vanish- 
ed from this world thousands of years ; but his 
psalms are here still. Many a noble head is dust ; 
but what thoughts were wrought out in it are 
alive now, and will be for ever. As long as a 
thought has such immortality, the life of my soul 
is not a matter to be feared for. 



192 



EUTHANASY. 



MARHAM. 

For our souls live in God far more safely than 
thoughts in the mind ; because in him there is no 
forgetfulness. And from what you have been 
saying, I think this : that if the Past lives on in us, 
we may well hope ourselves to live on in God. 

AUBIN. 

On account of our souls, we might perhaps 
have feared a little, if what was good in Athens 
had perished ; but it did not. The old ages are 
gone by, but the spirit even of them did not go 
into nothingness ; nor will my soul, then, ever, by 
any likelihood. In the rise and fall of empires 
there is Divine purpose. There has been growth 
in the successive forms of civilization, in the 
Greek over the Egyptian, in the Roman over the 
Greek, and in Christian Rome over Pagan Rome, 
and in every age of the Christian world over what 
has been before. 

MARHAM. 

O Oliver ! ours has been the midsummer of 
the world's history, to live in. 

AUBIN. 

There is in us and about us what is the sci- 
ence, the wisdom, the religion, and the worth of 
all the centuries since Adam. Yes, in my char- 
acter there are the effects of Paul's journey to 
Damascus, and of the meeting of King John and 
the barons at Runny mede. There is in my soul 



EUTHANASY. 193 



the seriousness of the many conflicts, and famines, 
and pestilences of early English times. And of 
my enthusiasm, some of the warmth is from fiery 
words that my forefathers thrilled to, in the times of 
the Commonwealth and the Reformation. There 
is in me what has come of the tenderness with 
which mothers nursed their children ages ago, and 
something that may be traced to the resolute talk 
of Cromwell and his cousin Hampden ; and there 
is that in me which is holy, and which began from 
a forty days' fast in a wilderness in Judea, now 
eighteen hundred years since. 

MARHAM. 

In a sense, all the ages that have ever been are 
now ; they are with us now. 

ATJBIN. 

The Past, the infinite Past ! My soul was 
born of it, and I am spirit of its spirit. O, as I 
look back at the Past, and think what it is to me, 
I feel as Apollo did as he gazed upon Mnemo- 
syne, and said, — 

Mute thou remainest — Mute ! Yet I can read 
A wondrous lesson in thy silent face ; 
Knowledge enormous makes a God of me. 
Names, deeds, gray legends, dire events, rebellions, 
Majesties, sovran voices, agonies, 
Creations and destroyings, all at once 
Pour into the wide hollows of my brain, 
And deify me, as if some blithe wine 
Or bright elixir peerless I had drunk, 
And so become immortal. 
13 



194 EUTHANASY. 

O, the way of my soul's growth argues eternity 
for her life ! The Past ! — as I think of it, and 
how wonderfully I was born of it, I do feel in me 
a something infinite, that persuades me of my im- 
mortality. Thou glorious Past, thou suffering 
Past, thou dear, dear Past ! 

I can read 
A wondrous lesson in thy silent face. 

MARHAM. 

It seemed to die every day, but it did not. And 
we men, — we seem to die, but we do not. It is 
only to one another that we die ; for we do not to 
God, nor to the angels. 

AUBIN. 

God ! this life of ours is much too wonderful 
to be despaired of, even at its end. 

MARHAM. 

And through Christ, that end has itself become 
so hopeful, — so divinely hopeful ! 



EUTHANASY. 



195 



CHAPTER XIX. 



A trance of high and solemn bliss 

From purest ether came ; 
'Mid such a heavenly scene as this, 

Death is an empty name. — John Wilson. 



MARHAM. 

A delightful day, is not it, Oliver ? 

AUBIN. 

Yes, uncle. But how calm it is. It is so 
profoundly quiet. A blessed day it is ; and the 
great peace of it reaches into the soul. 

MARHAM. 

It does ; and it feels like the peace of God ; 
and so it must be, in some way ; for a troubled 
spirit never feels this calmness of nature. 

AUBIN. 

That is true ; and, uncle, I would widen what 
you have said, and say, that when the soul is 
most nearly what it ought to be, it is then fullest 
of faith in what it will be. When we are most 
heavenly in temper, we are in belief surest of be- 
ing immortal. Our highest moods are higher than 
any fling of death's dart. 

MARHAM. 

It is the goodness of God that exempts our 



196 EUTHANASY. 

best experiences from the taint of the charnel- 
house. But you seem as though you had anoth- 
er explanation, Oliver. 

AUBIN. 

No, uncle, I have not. The mind is like a 
harp, in which many strings thrill, on one being 
struck ; and the feeling of the beautiful and that 
of the infinite are nigh one another. What I mean 
is, that beauty is to the feeling as though it were 
everlasting. 

MARHAM. 

Evanescent, surely, Oliver. For of all beauty- 
there is one emblem, — the grass, which is in the 
field to-day, and to-morrow in the oven. 

AUBIN. 

Trees please me much to look at, and walk 
amongst, and sit under. But that they will rot 
and fall never troubles me. 

MARHAM. 

That is because most trees are as long-lived 
as we men, and some are a hundred times longer. 
But over and over again we see the flowers fade. 
And the more we like them, the more decaying 
this world must feel. 

ATJBIN. 

No ; but the fresher and the newer. For do 
not the flowers, when they have gone out of blos- 
som, come into it again ? What decays in flow- 
ers is the pulp, which is not what you care for ; 



EUTHANASY. 197 

but the beauty in them, that you love, never per- 
ishes, and every year it is fresh to look at. O, 
to me flowers are words about a life more spirit- 
ual than is plainly to be signified in this earth by 
things springing out of it ! 

MARHAM. 

And they so frail ! 

AUBIN. 

When Jesus spoke, his words thrilled on the 
air a very short time ; and yet there was an ever* 
lastingness in them,, which an angel would have 
known at once. 

MARHAM. 

Yes, what the Pharisees thought was only gen- 
tle breath did outlive their boasted temple, as 
some of them lived to know ; and will survive the 
very earth, as we live late enough to be sure of. 
In Galilee and in Jewry, many centuries ago, 
there were low sounds on the air for little spaces 
of time ; but there were ears through which they 
proved to be doctrines, and revolutions, and the 
coming of the kingdom of God on the earth. 
Things are not always what they seem, even to 
all men. 

AUBIN. 

So much depends on the way of regarding 
them. And so what are emblems of decay to 
some men are to me suggestive of eternity and 
youth. Sometimes, in looking at a flower, my 




198 ETJTHANASY. 

mind is drawn into a mood that is like a firm per- 
suasion of immortality, it is so largely thoughtful 
and full of peace. That word which was made 
flesh is the greatest word that God has spoken to 
the children of men ; and there are many ways in 
which he never leaves himself without witness in 
the world ; and I like to think that flowers were 
meant to be what I feel them, — the undertones 
of encouragement, in which the Creator speaks to 
us creatures, in a world in which sometimes the 
thunder is his voice, and fire and hail and stormy 
winds the fulfilment of his word. 

MAK.HAM. 

Once I had been gazing up at a very high rock, 
for some time, in awe ; and at the foot of it, I re- 
member the pleasure, almost the relief, it was to 
me to notice and examine a little pimpernel ; for 
that I think it was. It rested my strained eye- 
sight and overwrought feelings. 

ATTBIN. 

And did not it rest your spirit, to see that 
Providence, in its works, is infinitely minute, as 
well as awfully vast ? For that is no small com- 
fort to know. I think the discoveries of the tel- 
escope would have been dreadful, but for the mi- 
croscope. God's throne has risen above this 
earth inconceivably high ; but, another way, the 
Divine condescension is to be seen reaching un- 
expectedly and infinitely low. In a field, or on 



EUTHANASY. 199 

the side of a brook, when I see a forget-me-not, 
I think to myself, He has not forgotten even thee. 

MARHAM. 

In a writer of the fifteenth century, I remember 
that there is a passage in which he says that the 
universe is the handwriting of God, and all ob- 
jects are words in it. 

AUBIN. 

And very significant words some of them are. 
At the end of winter, the snowdrop comes out 
of the ground quietly, and like a word that is ex- 
pected, and renews the promise, that seed-time 
shall not fail. And in autumn, the ears of corn, 
yellow, and bending heavily on the stalk, are 
themselves the certainty that harvest shall not 
cease. 

MARHAM. 

Our Lord says, " Consider the lilies of the 
field." And no doubt there is more in a lily 
than has been considered yet, and very much 
more than colors and leaves. To most men, 
there is in the stalk only sap ; but there is really 
in it the presence of God every moment, arraying 
the plant in glory. 

ATJBIN. 

And that is blessedness to know ; for with 
every feeling of that truth, God is felt in our- 
selves, and the feeling of God is that of our im- 
mortality. 



200 EUTHANASY. 



MARHAM. 

Yes, in our minds any thought of God may be 
almighty in its effects. 

ATJBIN. 

I have God to believe in, and so I am immor- 
tal. Sometimes I feel this, O, so strongly ! and 
then at other times there is no meaning in it. 
And sometimes I am made conscious of my im- 
mortal nature by such beauty as comes and goes 
in a moment, — summer lightning, a shadow's 
passing over a sunlit valley, the smile of a wo- 
man 

MARHAM. 

Oliver ! 

AUBIN. 

It is so, uncle. In the feeling of beauty there 
is no taint of decay or death. 

MARHAM. 

A painting is colored canvas, and an engraving 
is paper printed on ; and both are very perish- 
able. 

AUBIN. 

So they are, and so are the leaves of the Bi- 
ble ; but the Gospel is not. 

MARHAM. 

But the Gospel is not in the ink and paper, but 
in the meaning made in the mind of the reader. 

AUBIN. 

And in art beautiful objects are things by which 



EUTHANASY. 201 

souls understand one 'another. There is York 
Minster. I look at its western front, — I go 
through the door, and. up the nave, and into the 
choir, and up to the east window. And round my 
head I am conscious, as it were, of the sublimity 
of the stars, and under my feet the floor feels as 
though it were low, very low, down in the earth. 
I experience what the builder meant, — how hu- 
mility is the basis of that character which has 
glory for its crown. I return down the aisle in the 
spirit of the place, and I feel that, while walking 
humbly with God, there is heaven above a man 
very soon about to open. I understand by York 
Minster what the man who built it wished. 

MARHAM. 

That Minster is a noble thought made into 
stone, and he who feels it does feel what was 
the mind of a Christian artist five hundred years 
since. 

AUBIN. 

And so this earth is a thought of God's, and 
to know and feel what it is is to understand some- 
thing of the mind of God. Now to me, uncle, 
the loveliness of this scene from the window is 
like the smile of Almightiness. It feels so, and 
it is so. See under that tree how the shadows 
play ! O, how very, very beautiful it is ! 

MARHAM. 

Yes, it is pretty, very. 



202 EUTHANASY. 

AUBIN. 

Pretty ! It is beautiful. Yes ! and there is 
that to be felt in it that is like learning the mind 
of God, and rinding it to be love, infinite love. 

MARHAM. 

Trees and flowers, turf, ground a little undu- 
lated, and yonder a brook ; that is what you see, 
Oliver. 

AUBIN. 

A little earth shaped into a pair of cheeks, and 
pinched into a nose, and made into lips, chin, and 
forehead, and with some humors mixed together 
for eyes, — these are a face. But though only 
clay, yet they are expressive of faith, hope, and 
love, despair and hatred, and every passion. 

MARHAM. 

And every degree of every passion ; the face 1 
is so wonderfully expressive of the mind within. 

AUBIN. 

And so is nature of what is Divine within it. 
This morning I sat alone in the garden ; and all 
about me things looked so lovely, so imbued with 
spirit, that I felt myself circled with love and 
beauty ; and my soul within me yearned like a 
child in its mother's arms. 

MARHAM. 

I saw you, and I was coming to you, but I 
fancied your thoughts were making you good 
company. 



EUTHANASY. 203 

ATJBIN. 

What Godhead is in nature I feel about me, 
though not familiarly, but with something of awe 
and distance in it. 

MARHAM. 

But is not it the mind itself which colors the 
earth with meaning ? for it is not always, nor to 
many men, that nature is what you speak of. 

ATJBIN. 

Because we are not always, nor often, in our 
best moods ; and they are our best that are our 
truest. If you had Leonardo da Vinci's Last 
Supper in this library, how often would you ex- 
perience the spirit of it ? Not every moment 
you were here, nor every day, nor rightly even 
every week, perhaps, but only in some more ex- 
alted seasons. 

MARHAM. 

True ; and what we felt at our best would be 
most nearly what the painter meant. 

ATJBIN. 

And it is the same with the meaning that comes 
out in a landscape, or in any view of nature, in 
our best moments. Now this morning, as I sat 
under the tree, — indeed always, when my soul 
is in sympathy with nature, my feeling is that of a 
joyful recognition of God. It is as though out 
of some infinite distance the face of the Father 
Almighty were becoming visible, smiling upon me 
in encouragement and love. 



204 EUTHANASY. 

MARHAM. 

And do not you feel that the truth of all truth 
is God, and that the goodness of all good things 
is God, and that God is the inspiration of all ex- 
cellence, and that every good and perfect gift is 
from above ? 

AUBIN. 

Yes, uncle. And so in reading a good book, 
the truth and beauty of it are witnesses to me of 
my relationship to God, as his child. What is 
true to my mind is true to God ; and what is 
goodness to my feeling is good in the eye of God. 
But how do I know this ? By inward feeling. I 
am strongly persuaded of it from within myself. 
But it is from what is outside me, as well as by 
inward feeling, that I know that what is beautiful 
with me is beautiful with God ; I know it by what 
God has made. 

MARHAM. 

And God made the human soul, and he pro- 
portioned its feelings like the strings of a harp ; 
and in its better and believing seasons the music 
it makes is what the Father of spirits listens, to and 
loves. 

AUBIN. 

That is blessedly certain. 

MARHAM. 

In the hearts of little children there is many a 
feeling, the strain of which their angels do often 




EUTHANASY. 205 



hymn before the face of their Father which is in 
heaven. And in silent chambers there are those 
whose thoughts at night are like organ-music in 
the ear of God, they are so beautiful, and great, 
and solemn ; though, as being pure worship of the 
spirit, they must be more acceptable to him, in- 
finitely, than any music made with hands. 

AUBIN. 

The knowledge of every such man is very dear. 
Because over every one out of whose heart the 
Spirit cries, " Father ! Father ! " Christian faith 
hears the voice of God making answer, " My 
son ! my son ! " 

MARHAM. 

I like what you say, Oliver. 

AUBIN. 

I was thinking of you, uncle. 

MARHAM. 

I only wish, — but 

AUBIN. 

And that I was thinking rightly, I know by the 
calm effect your company has on my mind. 

MARHAM. 

You were going to speak about the spiritual 
witness there is in the beauty of nature. 

AUBIN. 

When tree, or river, or rock shows beauty, and 
my soul answers to it, it is as though the spirit of 
nature said, " We understand one another ; and so 




206 EUTHANASY. 

thou art mine and I am thine." And then every 
thing in nature feels dear ; and death, if not very- 
dear, feels beautiful, and worthy of infinite trust. 

MARHAM. 

Always may we feel it so ! 

AUBIN. 

Summer and winter, sunshine and darkness, 
rolling seas and high mountains, — unlike one 
another though they are, there is that in me that 
is like them all. They are witnesses to me of 
myself. For the beauty of each one of them -I 
feel, and the spirit that is in them all I am akin 
to. If only flowers, or only trees, or only some 
one class of objects in nature, were beautiful to 
us, then their perishing might infect us with mor- 
tal fears. But now all things are made beautiful 
to us in their time ; all things of God's making 
are. And the feeling of this is fellow-feeling 
with God. And in any thing, but very strongly 
in all great things, fellow-feeling with God is per- 
suaded of co-eternity with him. Now at the view 
from this window I can look and look till I feel 
inwardly immortal. 

MARRAM. 

I cannot say that I have ever felt it much my- 
self, but from the temples and the religious history 
of all ages I should suppose that there is a state 
of mind in which beauty is to be felt like a Divine 
presence. 



EUTHANASY. 207 

AUBIN. 

Beauty in nature, and as felt by a Christian 
spirit, — this is what I think is a manifestation of 
God. Uncle, look at the garden ; see the flow- 
ers, and the apple-trees, and the lilacs in blossom. 
And in the field beyond how white the hawthorn 
is ! And then there are the poplars, so leafy and 
straight, and as though standing against the sky 
behind. Now does not the sight of a scene like 
this make in the mind the peace of God ? And 
this peaceful feeling must be God's meaning, and 
not mere chance in us. 

MARHAM. 

But may it not be mere contentment of the 
soul, and not what is any way a promise of an 
hereafter ? 

AUBIN. 

No, uncle ; I think not. And that is nearly all 
I can answer you. O, yes, there is something 
that occurs to me ! If in our souls there were no 
feeling of infinity, mountains would not be sub- 
lime to us ; they would only be craggy steeps, 
and no more to us than to the goat and the cha- 
mois. 

MARHAM. 

And that something of the infinite which there 
is in the soul betokens a higher relationship than 
what the grave can close on. 



208 EITTHANASY. 



ATJBIN. 

The mountains make in us a feeling sublimer 
than of what they are themselves. But they are 
what they are to us, because there is that in our 
nature through w T hich height beyond height might 
rise before us in the universe, and so our souls 
grow grander and more solemn ; but only to feel 
more grandly and more solemnly at further higher 
sights, for ever. 

MARHAM. 

What there is of infinity in our souls does lay 
hold of the gates of heaven for us. 

ATJBIN. 

While we have been in valleys, and on moun- 
tains, and the banks of rivers, what feelings have 
grown in us in this England of ours will be the 
beginnings of our delight in the fields of heaven. 
Sometimes, at the sight of a sublime scene, or a 
beautiful landscape, or a glorious sunset, first my 
feeling is delight, next it is worship, and then it is 
a presentiment of heaven ; for I think to myself 
that this earth, at its loveliest, is hardly even the 
forecourt of the temple. And certainly, than 
this it is no nigher to himself that God has ad- 
mitted us earthly worshippers. But though not 
called so, death is that Beautiful gate through 
which we shall pass on into the temple, and to- 
wards the Holy of holies, where the pure in heart 
are blest with the sight of God. 



ETJTHANASY. 209 



CHAPTER XX. 

A Healer, a Redeemer came, 

A Son of Man, with love and power ; 

And an all-animated flame 

He kindled in our inmost soul. 

Then first we saw the heavens unfold ; 

They seemed an ancient father-land : 

And now we could believe and hope, 

And feel we were akin to God. — Novalis. 

MARHAM. 

You have been looking at your watch these 
five minutes. What do you see, Oliver ? 

ATJBIN. 

More than I can speak of ; and I hear more 
than I can tell of well. Tick, tick, tick ! Gone, 
gone, gone ! As fast as this watch goes, men 
die, — a man a moment. 

MARHAM. 

Is it so ? 

AUBIN. 

Yes, very nearly. 

MARHAM. 

Oliver, it is a thing to think of. And the more 
one thinks, the faster time seems to go ; and fast- 
er and faster it seems as though men were dying. 
As one listens, it is as though the watch were 
14 



210 EUTHANASY. 

saying all manner of warnings, — now then, now 
then ! — thy turn, thy turn ! — 't will be, 't will 
be ! And so it will be ; and God knows how 
soon. 

ATJBIN. 

And only he knows the witness this watch 
might witness about me, for I have forgotten my- 
self ; or rather, my brain has, for my spirit has 
not, because it will be all surviving in me here- 
after. Round the face of this watch, every min- 
ute-mark has been the date of some impulse I 
have felt and followed, right or wrong, and that I 
shall remember hereafter, and, as I trust, when I 
am in glory ; and every such recollection will 
make me feel myself then, more and more devout- 
ly, a miracle of grace. And that will soon be, 
perhaps. On, on, on ! says the watch ; on, on, 
on ! And on it goes, and on time goes, and on 
the world goes. Tick, tick, tick ! And only 
with this, Venus is a hundred miles farther away ; 
and it is another part of the sun that shines on 
Mercury ; and girdled about with rings, and cir- 
cled about with moons, Saturn is not where he 
was ; and perhaps out of a million stars, there is 
not one but has changed its place. And all with 
less noise than the going of this watch, and with 
less effort, perhaps ; and, indeed, certainly ; for 
with Almightiness there cannot be any effort at all. 
I do not discern it, for I am in the flesh ; but on 



EUTHANASY. 211 

the face of my watch, here, among these twelve, 
one will be the hour of my death , and there is a 
minute here that will be my last breath. This 
finger moves on slowly and surely, and over fhe 
whole face it will turn, and many a time, per- 
haps ; but for all that, like a finger along the lines 
of a death-warrant, it is moving on to point the 
time of my departure hence. And the next min- 
ute afterwards some one will take up this very 
watch, perhaps, and remark to himself the hour 
and the minute of my death. But the very mo- 
ment that I breathe out my last breath, somebody 
will draw his last. And before it will be well 
known that I am dead, quite a company of spirits 
will have come forth with me out of this earthly 
life. And then where shall we find ourselves, — 
ay, where ? Day and night, summer and winter, 
life and death, — these our planetary changes will 
be over. But if we shall have done with this 
earth, shall we have done with our planetary sys- 
tem ? But why not ? for shall we not have al- 
ready learned the great starry lesson ? and are 
there not some human minds in which the mate- 
rial system exists almost as clearly as it does in 
the eye of God, — both the stars in their move- 
ments, and the earth in what it is ? Such knowl- 
edge has God allowed us, and it is very won- 
derful. 



212 EUTHANASY. 

MARHAM. 

In the heathen it would be ; but it is not in us 
Christians, to whom he has given the knowledge 
of his Son. 

AUBIN. 

Right, uncle. For that knowledge is deeper, 
and higher, and wider, and more enduring, and of 
quite another nature, than what is got through the 
telescope, and perfected by mathematics ; for, in- 
deed, it is infinite. 

MARHAM. 

That is a sound thought, Oliver. 

AUBIN. 

The stars differ from one another in size, and 
some of them in color ; and what any one of them 
might be to visit, there is no knowing. But I 
think they are an unlikely home, any one of them, 
for us Christians, on whom the ends of the world 
have come, as some Apostle expresses it. 

MARHAM. 

It is a thing I never thought of ; but why un- 
likely ? 

AUBIN. 

Unlikely is perhaps too strong a word. And 
it is possible, before being free of the universe, 
that we may be surrounded awhile with " the 
bands of Orion," or be bound within " the sweet 
influences of the Pleiades." But why should 
we ? For it is likely that their starry elements 



EUTHANASY. 213 

are not very different from these of our earth. 
And this of our earth is a way of life we are ex- 
perienced in now ; though many die out of the 
earth, knowing little or nothing of it. Then how 
many thousand nights we have seen the stars, and 
seen them with bright eyes, and with tearful eyes, 
and in every mood, so that, perhaps, there is 
nothing new to be felt in their sight ! But of that 
one cannot be sure ; for they may wear quite 
another look in the sight of creatures redeemed, 
immortal, and crowned, to what they do in eyes 
that have weariness, and passion, and tears in them. 

MARHAM. 

And dimness and watchings, an older man would 
add. But, says the Scripture, there remaineth a 
rest. 

AUBIN. 

Now blessed be Paul for that one word, — rest. 
It makes one feel like a child in the evening of a 
summer's day, and it makes one's death-bed as 
soft to think of as going to sleep. Rest, rest ! 
Is not the sound of the word so soothing ? It 
will be a world of rest ; and so it will hardly be 
a world like this earth, with clouds driving over 
it, and with seas in it ebbing and flowing, and 
never still, and with winds rising and falling, and 
blowing now one way and now another. 

MARHAM. 

Green pastures are what David 



214 ETJTHANASY. 

AUBIN. 

Many objects in this earth are what things in 
heaven will be like. Meadows we shall lie down 
in ; and there will be in our ears the murmur of 
the river of water of life ; and over us there will 
be a tree of life, and through the leaves of it, 
some rays of the light of God will shine upon us 
in that blessed shade ; and we shall eat of the 
fruit of the tree, because it is for the healing of 
the nations : and just at first we shall not venture 
to look into the full glory beyond, for we shall be 
only fresh out of the darkness of this earth. 

MARHAM. 

And God will be all and in all, and 

AUBIN. 

All and in all ! He will be in the river of life, 
flowing alongside us ; and he will be in the tree 
that shades us, and in the light that shines through 
it ; and he will be in us, ourselves. He will be 
everlasting growth of spirit in us, and he will be 
peace and joy. Ay, there will be then one soul 
of joy in us and in God. We in him, he will be 
in us. We shall be nerves in his infinite blessed- 
ness, and for ever be thrilled with delight. And, 
perhaps, what is done divinely on one side of 
heaven will gladden us on the other ; for we 
shall be in God, and God will be then, as he is 
now, glad in all things. Ay, this, — this is the 
thing to think of. God in us, and we in God, — 






EUTHANASY. 215 



this one certainty of what heaven will be is 
enough for us. For of the manner of the future 
life we do know nothing. There is nothing told 
us. Perhaps there could not be. And, indeed, 
why should it be told us how we are to live the 
first instant after death, any more than what fresh 
experiences we shall have age after age in eter- 
nity ? Sufficient for our day is the light we have ; 
and to-morrow, if we have things to do not of this 
earth, then we shall be lighted for our work in 
another way than we are now. 

MARHAM. 

Ay, if we would only walk by what light we 
have, instead of standing still to wonder how it 
shines, and whether we might not have had much 
more of it than what we have ! In all things it 
seems to be a rule, that we should have no great- 
er light than what we can use, and ought to use. 
I suppose it is for knowledge always to feel the 
same as duty. 

AUBIN. 

Yonder shines the sun, looking as though he 
were only the light of our sky, and not as though 
he were to be seen in ten or twelve other firma- 
ments. It is all as though he rose in our east, 
and went round our sky, and down in our west. 
And the look of it quite agrees with what our 
state is. For we are only dwellers of this earth, 
and not creatures of the solar system. What du- 



216 EUTHANASY. 

ties am I made to owe in Jupiter, or Mars, or 
any of the other planets, that my eyes should 
have been fashioned in such a way as for me to 
see at a glance what look the sun has as he 
shines in their skies ? No doubt, astronomy has 
proved profitable knowledge ; but it is not holi- 
ness. Why the sun shines for us is to light us to 
our duties, which are all to be done on this earth. 
Hereafter, there may be purposes for which we 
shall see the sun shining in another way than he 
does to us now. Ay, and does not this suggest 
how God will grow for ever on our gaze ? O, 
many are the thoughts about him, and many are 
the ways of feeling towards him, that are withheld 
from us as yet ; because, though he is in himself 
from everlasting to everlasting, still, to our experi- 
ence, he is no more than the Father of our as yet 
earthly spirits. Let our thoughts be as familiar 
only with a few ages as they are now with years ; 
let us see another world or two beside this earth, 
and sympathize with some forms of spiritual life, 
and know a few of the truths that shape into ex- 
istence in seraphs' minds ; — and all this let us 
learn, loving God the while, like his children ; 
and we cannot even think the grandeur, and the 
strength, and the rapture, with which the thought 
of God will quicken in us. 

MARHAM. 

True, very true. And very glad I am at what 



EUTHANASY. 217 

you have been saying, Oliver. For, Oliver, why 
I cannot tell, but always the greatness of the uni- 
verse has been to me an oppressive thought. 
Astronomy is no delight to me, but appalling. 
Our earth is not the only planet that belongs to 
our sun, nor the largest ; it is only one out of 
many, and it is a thousand times smaller than 
some of the others. In thinking of the solar sys- 
tem, this earth feels to be nothing ; and it is pain- 
fully nothing, in comparison with the thousands of 
suns we know of, and the myriads of other suns 
that are shining beyond the reach of our eyes. 
The rays of the sun are swift, and the light *of the 
stars is quite as quick. So that sometimes my 
heart has almost withered in me, as I have thought 
at night of the rays of some stars having been 
travelling towards this earth longer than my life. 
It is light from such a distance, as makes the 
word infinite sound dreadfully. Sometimes when 
I have been thinking astronomically of this earth 
and the sun, and the millions of other suns there 
are, and of what I am in it all, I have been as 
though lost, — I have been quite overwhelmed 
with my nothingness. 

AUBIN. 

Now, uncle, that has not been my feeling ever. 
For the sun could not shine long without me, 
nor this earth continue. For in the universe ele- 
ments and forces are so exactly proportioned, 



218 EUTHANASY. 

that the least change in one would disorder the 
rest, and so destroy the creation. It is said that 
not an atom of matter could be struck from exist- 
ence, without being the ruin of the universe. 

MAK.HAM. 

It may be true ; and it would be indisputably 
true, if the universe were no more than the curi- 
ous machinery which it is often thought. But its 
working is more than that of mechanism ; it is that 
of an infinite spirit. 

ATJBIN. 

I quite agree with you, uncle. And so we 
oughu to be hopeful and cheerful ; for in all things 
about us, is not there the presence of a spirit, 
wise, loving, and almighty ? Providence is infi- 
nitely careful, as well as infinitely vast. It is not 
more likely that I should be forgotten by God, 
than that a star, a world, a sun, should be. In 
the universe I am not a mere accident. Nay, 
the very hairs of my head are all numbered, and 
not one of them can fall without my Father ; and 
if it could, it would be into annihilation ; and 
through that, there would be a time when this 
earth would begin to shake, and the planets to 
err upon their orbits ; and from star to star, and 
from one constellation to another, the heavens 
would begin to wear toward their destruction. 

MAK.HAM. 

And pass away they will, some time. 



EUTHANASY. 219 

AUBIN. 

Your mind can think the blotting out of the 
stars ; and so the light that is in you is greater 
than what is in them all, — greater in its kind. A 
destructive blast might go forth and extinguish our 
sun, and other suns, one after another, down infi- 
nite space, but your soul be swept over, and be 
left behind, a light undimmed. 

B1ARHAM. 

What you have said this afternoon will do me 
good. The vastness of creation has been to me 
an oppressive thought : and yet it ought not to 
have been ; for I might have been sure there was 
some cheerful way of thinking of it. For even 
of clouds, the darkest have all an edging of light, 
showing that there is the sun behind them. 

AUBIN. 

And there is this consideration, uncle, in which 
I am sure you will agree. As I have said before, 
to us earthly creatures the sun looks, and was 
meant to look, as the sun only of our sky, and not 
as the luminary of ten or twelve or more firma- 
ments. For my seeing him shine on other worlds 
would be of no use to me for what I have to do 
in this earth, nor would it make me more loving, 
or dutiful, or devout. And so I know of God 
what is good for me ; but there is knowledge of 
him withheld from me, — such knowledge as in 
my present circumstances I should not be the bet- 



220 ETTTHANASY. 

ter for having, perhaps ; but yet such as for not 
having I may be the wiser, that is, the humbler. 

MARHAM. 

Many things we are ignorant of in this world. 
And how should it be otherwise with us ? And 
many things will never be known of in this earth 
at all. There are directions into which inquiries 
might be made, were it not for the darkness. But 
it is holy darkness ; and what makes man the 
holier, when it is rightly felt. 

AUBIN. 

I know that darkness is good for me, as well as 
light, and that it is good for me not to know some 
things, as well as to know others ; and for myself, 
I can pray to God out of my whole heart and 
with the strength of my understanding, " Thy 
will be done on earth, as it is in heaven " ; else 
there is not a flower, nor an insect, nor a bird, 
nor an animal, nor a day, nor a man, but might 
make me question myself to madness. 

MARHAM. 

Yes, Oliver, you have felt the same as I have. 

AUBIN. 

Why was not yonder butterfly created an an- 
gel ? for it would not then have taken up more 
room in the universe than it does now. One rea- 
son of its life may be for me to wonder about it. 
For if we grew up in the knowledge of every 
thing, we should never grow devout. In every 



EUTHANASY. 221 

way of thinking of it, and in every question which 
can be asked regarding it, this world is mystery ; 
so as to shut us up on the only truth which can be 
answered about it, — the will of God. But O 
the wondrousness of that answer ! for in the 
earnest making of it we ourselves are made god- 
like, — are made to feel ourselves children of the 
Highest. 

MARHAM. 

You have said the very thing, Oliver, which 
often and often I have wanted to know ; though 
I do not know that I ought to have been in want 
of it ; and indeed I have tried not to think of 
some things which have come into my mind. 

ATTBIN. 

I can so easily bewilder myself about the De- 
ity, if I think of him as the God of the hosts of 
heaven, — every host a myriad times, ten myriad 
times, more numerous than the inhabitants of this 
world ; also if I think of him as the Creator of 
angels and archangels, and so the God of many a 
million worlds besides this of ours, and as a Being 
from everlasting to everlasting, and as almighty, 
yet allowing of death in this world of his. All 
this is true, and I know it to be true : but such 
thoughts are too high for me ; for I can gaze at 
them, and strain my eyes after where they lead, 
till I feel blind, and could grow so. In every 
way God is infinite, and so I never could have 



222 EUTHANASY. 

learned him of myself. But he has shown him- 
self as the sun of our firmament. 

MARHAM. 

As the Father of our Lord Jesus. Stars, and 
ages, and infinities, — these are not the way to 
think of God. 

AUBIN. 

They can awe a spirit, but enlighten it they 
cannot. At least they cannot be the beginning of 
light in the soul ; but Christian belief, when it 
has begun, draws into itself light from almost ev- 
ery thing. To understand at all what life means, 
one must begin with Christian belief. And I 
think knowledge may be sorrow with a man, un- 
less he loves. It is my right, and there is some 
duty in it, too, to learn all that is to be known of 
what the ages and the great men of this world 
have been, and of the worlds beyond worlds 
which are round us every way. But the look 
of the firmament itself hints wisdom to us ; for 
bounded by the horizon, all the world round me 
is only a few miles. From which I may feel, that 
for me the world is specially meant to be what is 
just about me, — what I can see and talk with 
men in, and be kind in, and do duty in. Let me 
be right with the world about me, and the whole 
world beyond will then look right towards me. 

MARHAM. 

Thank you, Oliver ; for you have "instructed 



EUTHANASY. 223 

and you have delighted me very much this after- 
noon. And your imagination is not lawless, as I 
have sometimes feared it might perhaps be, a 
little, a very, very little : but it is not. It is re- 
ligiously chastened ; it is hither and thither, but 
it is to do Christian work : it is lowly service at 
the door of the church ; and it is a noble hymn in 
the choir; and it is a voice from the pulpit like a 
clarion ; and in quieter moments it is a vision of 
heaven and hell, and unearthly things. 

AUBIN. 

You are yourself imaginative, uncle. 

MARHAM. 

I ! not I ! No, Oliver, no ! 

AUBIN. 

Yes, you are, my dear uncle ; and now and 
then very beautifully so ; but more so in talking 
with me than with any one else, I think. 

MARHAM. 

What time is it, Oliver ? 

AUBIN. 

Ten minutes to five. Which time of the 
twenty-ninth of May, of the year eighteen hun- 
dred and forty-seven, will never be again, — 
never, — not ever. Every day the world is 
ripening against that harvest which is to be at the 
end of it ; slowly, perhaps ; and yet not so very 
slowly considering what the fruits of it are to be, 
for they will be eternal ; they will be souls, — 
everlasting souls. 



224 EUTHANASY. 

MARHAM. 

A very beautiful afternoon ! And so sweet the 
air is ; is not it, Oliver ? 

AUBIN. 

that lark ! He is up, singing his thanks after 
yonder cloud, for having dropped a few big rain- 
drops on the field ; for his nest is in it ; and so 
the grass smells more sweetly to his mate. 

MARHAM. 

It must have been on an afternoon like this that 
holy George Herbert first sung his four verses on 
virtue ; playing the while on the theorbo. 

AUBIN. 

1 should like to hear them, uncle. Will you 
repeat them ? 

MARHAM. 

Now you must like them, Oliver ; for I do very 
much. 

Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright, 
The bridal of the earth and sky ; 
The dew shall weep thy fall to-night ; 
For thou must die. 

Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave, 
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye ; 
Thy root is ever in its grave, 
And thou must die. 

Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses, 
A box where sweets compacted lie ; 
My music shows ye have your closes, 
And all must die. 



EUTHANASY. 225 

Only a sweet and virtuous soul, 
Like seasoned timber, never gives ; 
But though the whole world turn to coal, 
Then chiefly lives. 

George Herbert ! Holy George Herbert ! It 
is more than two hundred years since he was 
living. Since he was living, did I say ? As 
though he had been any thing else but living ! 
Between him and me there have dawned and 
darkened nearly eighty thousand days ; and yet 
he is to me as though he lived yesterday. And 
if he is this to me, then, very certainly, he is 
more than this to God. It is long, — long, — a 
space of two revolutions and many wars, since 
George Herbert lived at Bemerton. And yet 
through eighty millions of English people who 
have lived between him and me do I feel him, 
feel his feelings, feel his having been in the earth. 
I am only one of so many brothers of his, but 
his spirit has not died to me ; and if to me his 
spirit has not died, then how it must be living on 
to God ! O Lord, thou lover of souls ! You 
look at me, Oliver, as though you thought those 
words were my own ; but no, — they are not. 
They are from the Wisdom of Solomon, and very 
beautiful they are. I like repeating them, — O 
Lord, thou lover of souls ! 



15 



226 EUTHANASY. 



CHAPTER XXL 

Praise God, creature of earth, for the mercies linked with secrecy, 
That spices of uncertainty enrich thy cup of life. 
Praise God, his hosts on high, for the mysteries that make all joy ; 
What were intelligence, with nothing more to learn, or heaven, in eternity 
of sameness ? — M. F. Tuppek. 

■ 

MARHAM. 

There is no knowing what a day may bring 
forth. 

AUBIN. 

There is many a one for whom that is almost 
all the happiness of his life, uncle. 

MARHAM. 

In the midst of life we are in death. Life is so 
uncertain ! 

AUBIN. 

O, this uncertainty is great wealth, and it is 
the freshness of existence. And there are those 
who could not keep living from year to year with- 
out it. 

MARHAM. 

Do you think so ? 

AUBIN. 

To-day I am poor, ill, and friendless. But 
to-morrow I may be, — ay, what may I not be ? 



EUTHANAST. 227 

All over the world there will be changes ; and 
why not so in my lot ? Next week there may 
chance to me some mechanical discovery that 
may enrich me ; or I may be reestablished in my 
health ; or I may meet, and from the other side 
of the world, perhaps, a woman who may become 
my wife ; or I may have thoughts come into my 
mind that will be for the good and the love of 
multitudes of men. These are possible things, 
though riot likely. But this is no improbability, 
— my dying to-morrow. I may never be rich, 
married, famous, healthy ; but I shall be still 
more changed ; for a spirit I shall, I must, be- 
come some time. Die, — I may die to-morrow, 
and so to-morrow prove heir to a crown immor- 
tal, and feel in my soul the look of eyes purer 
and more loving than any that have glanced at me 
yet ; and have throng into my mind thoughts, O, 
so beautiful, and blessed, and great ! And any 
day this may happen to me ; for death keeps no 
Jewish Sabbath any more than the sun does. And 
sometimes I could be glad of it ; for to some 
moods of my mind that would be a gloomy day 
indeed, on which the earthly could not become 
the heavenly. But now there is no day forbidden 
to immortalize man. To-day, to-morrow, the 
day after, any day, gates may be thrown open, 
and I enter in, and gems and sapphires be pov- 
erty with me, and kings and princes an unheed- 



228 EUTHANASY. 



ed company. Any day I may die, and so there 
is no day but feels like a porch that may, per- 
haps, open into the next world. Yes, death, — 
the hourly possibility of it, — death is the sub- 
limity of life. 



EUTHANASY. 229 



CHAPTER XXII. 



In some hour of solemn jubilee 
The massy gates of Paradise are thrown 
Wide open, and forth come, in fragments wild, 
Sweet echoes of unearthly melodies, 
And odors snatched from beds of amaranth, 
And they that from the crystal river of life 
Spring up on freshened wing, ambrosial gales ! 
The favored good man in his lonely walk 
Perceives them, and his silent spirit drinks 
Strange bliss, which he shall recognize in heaven. 

Coleridge. 



ATTBIN. 

O this earth, this dear, green earth, this hap- 
py, happy earth ! It will be happy and beautiful 
without us soon. We shall be out of the earth 
soon, — out of this world, but not out of its beau- 
ty. The grace that rises from the earth in many 
a tree ; the fascination that eddies and murmurs 
in flowing water,' keeping the gazer standing on 
the river-side ; the beauty that lives along the 
plain, and sometimes that draws man's outstretch- 
ed hands towards itself, as though in recognition ; 
the loveliness that in a valley is round and over 
man, and embosomed in which he feels unearth- 
ly and sublimed ; the dear and fearful beauty of 
the lightning ; the wild grandeur of a September 
sunset, various, and living, and glowing ; all 



230 EUTHANASY. 

these we shall see again; no, — not see; for 
these things themselves we shall not see ; but 
what is in them all we shall feel again, and drink 
into everlastingly. And it will be a dearer de- 
light than it is now, and intenser and fuller. For 
then, O God, we shall be in thee and of thee ; 
and thou wilt be to us like an ocean of delight, 
our little spirits being bathed in thine infinite 
spirit. 

MARHAM. 

Amen, O Lord, Amen ! 

AUBIN. 

And it will be ; just as we are sure of loving 
again, because God is love. O, I have some- 
times felt, in the country, what I fondly think 
may be not unlike the way of our feeling in the 
next world ! 

MAEHAM. 

Why, Oliver, what can you mean ? 

AUBIN. 

"When I was a boy I used to* ramble into the 
country, and oftenest into a quiet valley, for 
blackberries and nuts. But I never got many 
when I went alone. For in the woods I seldom 
was long, before becoming possessed by a spirit, 
like what the Greeks imagined was Pan. A fear- 
ful pleasure ! At first it seemed as though the 
low wind whispered me ; and then, as though it 
waited about me and curled round my face. If a 



EUTHANASY. 231 

branch waved, it was toward me ; and if a leaf 
fluttered, so did my heart. It was as though my 
spirit had melted into the spirit of the woods. 
Then I would sit down and wonder at myself in 
awe, and joy, and tears. And the awe in my 
spirit would deepen, and the joy too, and my 
tears would fall faster, till I felt as the child Sam- 
uel may have done in the temple, while waiting 
for the Lord to speak. And there was speech 
from God to me at those times ; because, from 
my feelings then, I am now sure, even of myself, 
of the blessedness with which God is to be felt 
by the pure in heart. 

MARHAM. 

There are many of the feelings of childhood 
little understood, and some of which, I do not 
doubt, are vague yearnings after God. 

ATJBIN. 

On the Rhine, and overhanging it, is the Lur- 
leiberg, a rock. One evening in August I sat 
upon it. Up and down the river, on one side, 
were vineyards, and on the other, thick trees, and 
across it was the little town of Bingen ; but from 
where I was, it seemed to contract into nothing, 
as I looked at it, and so did my worldly thoughts. 
And into my soul slid the calmness of the scene, 
and then the sublimity of it. The air was like a 
living presence about me, and the rock under- 
neath me was like that of my salvation ; and from 



232 EUTHANASY. 

above, it was as though there were descending 
into my soul an exceeding weight of glory. 

MARHAM. 

Some seeds of glory fell into your soul then, 
no doubt. For the invisible things of God are to 
be understood from the things that are made. 

ATJBIN. 

And there is an enjoyment of heaven, for 
which our joy in nature is a preparation. And 
there is a love of the beautiful arts, which a man 
will be the better for, hereafter. Beauty is of 
God, as much as love is, or truth. 

MARHAM. 

It must be ; and the earth and the skies are the 
school in which for us to learn it. 

AUBIN. 

I shall die without having looked on the Med- 
iterranean in the Bay of Naples, and without hav- 
ing known the magic effect of a Milanese atmos- 
phere. I have not seen the valley of Chamouni, 
in the Alps, nor had a look from the Pyrenees. 
The gloom, and the grandeur, and the worship of 
American forests have not been felt by me ; nor 
have I ever rejoiced in the flowers, and the luxu- 
riance, and the deep green of the West Indies. 
I have never heard Niagara roar, nor, at sight of 
the Mississippi, thought of God, and been de- 
voutly glad, as I should have been if I had ever 
seen it ; for the sight of any great power in nature 



EUTHANASY. 233 

is to me like God's felt presence ; and during 
thunder and lightning, I cannot so well pray as 
sing hymns. 

MARHAM. 

The powers of nature are the almightiness of 
God ; and so they are what can be triumphed in. 

AUBIN. 

I have never seen the Southern Cross, nor felt 
the beauty and the mystery of the Northern 
Lights. These things I shall die without having 
known. There are picture-galleries, in the neigh- 
bourhood of which I should like to have lived 
a little while. There are books of engravings 
that I wish I could have owned years ago. And 
Athens and Rome I wish I had had opportunities 
of visiting. But I shall die, my soul not enriched 
by the greater marvels of the world, and poor 
in beauty. 

MARHAM. 

Not poor, though not as rich as it might have 
been. And sometimes, Oliver, I think, under 
other circumstances, the world might have been 
the better for you. Such things as you have been 
speaking of are to be seen for money. Now, as I 
know myself, one pecuniary prospect you declin- 
ed, on account of your scruples of conscience. 
And you were right in doing so, feeling as you 
do. There are grand and lovely sights in the 
world, and some of them you might have had the 



234 ET7THANASY. 

means to visit, if you had not been quite so scru- 
pulous. You might have seen more than you 
have seen ; but, Oliver, I cannot think that your 
sense of beauty will prove to be the weaker for 
such actions as have strengthened your conscience. 

AUBIN. 

There is in the world fearful wonder, that we 
have never thrilled to ; but before us, there is the 
great mystery of death, which we shall not miss 
of. Then what is beauty in nature ? It is God ; 
so that it is what we shall feel more sublimely 
hereafter, than we could anywhere at present. 
The greatest loveliness of this earth we may never 
see ; for we are here so short a time, and we are 
so restrained by circumstances ; but the beauty 
of the everlasting and ever brightening heavens, 
we are sure not to fail of. 

MARHAM. 

We trust to see it. 

AUBIN. 

And we shall not only see it, but feel it, and 
enjoy it. That we certainly shall do, though in 
this world we may not have been much refined 
by the study of art, or by travel ; for he who is 
sensible to the beauty of a moral life wants little 
towards loving well and wisely all beauty else. 
In the neighbouring town there are many saints, 
in whom taste has never been cultivated, because 
necessity has kept them laboring at one spot, as 



EUTHANASY. 235 

though in chains, and poverty has shut them out 
from the doors of many opportunities. While 
among them there is one, perhaps, with an eye 
like Raphael's, and another with feeling like what 
Turner has ; and there is another, perhaps, whose 
mind would be like Bryant's, only there are no 
woods in which for the man to strengthen his 
soul. But now, in these laboring saints, will God 
let the feeling of beauty become extinct ? No, 
never. Nor is there any chance of its dying out 
in them, because they feel the beauty of holiness. 
Beauty is manifold in form, but in spirit it is one ; 
it is one and the same in poetry, music, art, na- 
ture, and character. Out of primitive rudeness, 
he who has fashioned a soul after the Christian 
model is an artist, not for one age of flattery, nor 
many years of wonder, nor for time at all, but for 
eternity. 

MAKHAM. 

And so in that way, and often, many that are 
first will be last, and the last be first. 

ATJBIN. 

There are rich owners of statues and pictures, 
and who besides can talk about them critically ; 
yet they have less of the eternal essence and soul 
of beauty in them than there is in some herdsman 
on their grounds. Pictures will perish, and the 
science of them ; so alas for him who does not 
feel most the beauty of the human soul ! 



236 EUTHANASY. 

MARHAM. 

It is all over now, Oliver ; and I have you 
here ; and we are so happy together ! And now 
you are getting well ; and you will be well, I hope, 
in a few months, though perhaps not very strong ; 
and so now we can think of the past, and talk 
about it. It does seem to me such a pity, such 
a misfortune for society, I might say, that you 
should ever have been in want of any means for 
study, or for self-improvement in any way ! O 
Oliver ! for a man like you, it must have been 
very, very sajd. Now it is all past, and there is 
no help for it ; but we can believe that it was not 
all evil ; cannot we, Oliver ? 

AUBIN. 

Yes, uncle. Three years ago I was mournful 
with the thought of mine being a wasted life, — of 
no use either to myself or others. Not covet- 
ously, but I did long for a little of that money 
which so many waste on luxuries, to their own 
hurt ; for with that I could have got books to 
readj and matter to think about. I tried to bor- 
row books from two or three persons ; but I could 
not get any lent me, which made me wretched. 
And many mournful things I said to myself. I 
said, I am in this world along with the works of 
great, old writers, and I cannot have them to 
read ; — I am going away beyond the stars soon, 
and I shall know nothing of what truth is new in 



ETJTHANASY. 237 

this earth ; — books for refinement and instruction 
are lying useless in libraries and on booksellers' 
shelves, while my soul is wanting them for her 
good ; — the world about .me is full of knowledge, 
and I, in my innermost self, am perishing for lack 
of it ; — I am made for wisdom, I am anxious for 
it, I am called upon to get it, both by God and 
Christ, and yet I am unable to be learning; — 
O, the end of my life, and the great purpose of 
the world, is spiritual good ! and I cannot get 
any ; and I am as though I were made in vain. 
So I thought at times ; and sometimes my grief 
was great, — very bitter, — too great to be wept. 
I said to myself, that the world was not right, 
some persons being far too rich for their good, 
and others too poor for it. And then I thought^ 
if it was ill with me, it was worse with some 
others, for that they did not even wish for knowl- 
edge. Well, now, I said, there is opportunity 
for my being useful, and for my learning some- 
thing myself. So I persuaded some rude and ig- 
norant persons to let me teach them ; and my 
"books were what they read to me ; and their 
minds were books, out of which I read to myself. 
And in this way I learned what is not to be learn- 
ed any other way. And in my teaching, what 
knowledge I made use of was improved for me, 
as iron is when it is made into steel. And from 
experience I know, that, if a man is loving and 



238 EUTHANASY. 

earnest, what feeling he has of beauty is to be 
kept alive in him, and even strengthened, by 
every soul he knows of, and in the most unlikely 
places ; just as the beautiful rose blossoms and 
lives out of black earth. 

MARHAM. 

Tell me, dear Oliver, was not that sermon of 
yours written about the time which you have been 
speaking of ? 

AUBIN. 

Yes, uncle. 

MARHAM. 

I thought it was very likely to have been. 
Oliver, you have been a very noble 

AUBIN. 

Sometimes, and sometimes very unworthy, pos- 
sessor of what light God has given me to live by. 
For sometimes I have bitterly wanted to have 
things as other men have them ; and I have not 
always been contented with that Christian owner- 
ship through which all things are mine, whether 
things present or things to come. And uncle 

MARHA3I. 

Nay, but Oliver, speak about the feeling of 
beauty ; say what you were going to say when I 
asked you about the sermon. 

AUBIN. 

No, uncle, I have nothing more to say. Only 
I believe, that, for the enjoyment of heavenly 



EUTHANASY. 239 

beauty, a Christian spirit is better readiness than 
a well-educated eye. There are acts of forgive- 
ness that will hereafter prove to have refined a 
man's soul more than the ownership of a gallery 
of paintings by Correggio and Raphael. 



240 EUTHANASY. 



CHAPTER XXIII. 

So works the man of just renown 

On men, when centuries hare flown : 

For what a good man would attain, 

The narrow bounds of life restrain ; 

And this the balm that Genius gives, — 

Man dies, but after death he lives. — Goethe. 



MARHAM. 

Well, Oliver, what books have you been 
reading while I have been away ? 

ATJBIN. 

The Song of the Soul, and a portion of the 
Ennead of Plotinus. 

MARHAM. 

Henry More was a Platonist, as well as Ploti- 
nus ; but More was a Christian, which Plotinus 
was not. 

ATTBIN. 

This edition of the Ennead was printed in 
1580 ; and on the title-page Plotinus is de- 
scribed as being easily the Coryphaeus of all 
Platonists. His style is wonderful ; it is almost 
magical in its effects ; for it is so very clear. 
The book is as though it had been written 
with a diamond ; it is like cut-glass, like a 
very rich vessel of it, — so very rich, and beauti- 



EUTHANASY. 241 

ful, and labored, that you doubt your senses, and 
you agree with yourself that it cannot be only a 
drop of water that is held in so costly a vessel, 
but some elixir. 

MARHAM. 

What is the character of his argument, Ol- 
iver ? 

AUBIN. 

This edition of the Ennead was edited by Mar- 
silius Ficinus, and is dedicated to Lorenzo de' 
Medici. At the end of the chapter on the im- 
mortality of the soul, the editor asks Lorenzo 
whether he would not like to have a summary of 
the long argument ; and then he gives it, and says 
the soul is immortal ; first, because she is mis- 
tress of her perishing circumstances, and is able 
to resist bodily impulses ; secondly, because she 
often thinks of many things which are distinct 
from bodies of all kinds, either because they are 
separate naturally, or because she herself distin- 
guishes them in that way ; thirdly, because by na- 
ture she desires eternal things, and indeed often 
foregoes things temporal in her confidence of 
those which are eternal ; and fourthly, because 
she worships the Everlasting God in the persua- 
sion of an unending life. 

MARHAM. 

And how do you like the Song of the Soul ? 
16 



242 EUTHANASY. 

AUBIN. 

uncle ! very much, very much indeed. 
Yours is the only copy of it I have ever seen ; 
and I have been delighted with it. 

MARHAM. 

It is very ruggedly written. 

AUBIN. 

So it is ; but now and then there are lines 
which are more than smooth, and quite musical, 
— though they are not many ; but I will read 
you two or three. 

MARHAM. 

1 would rather you would give me some ac- 
count of the book, and here and there read me 
such passages as you think I may understand. 
Once or twice, many years ago, I tried to read 
the book, but I could not. On the title-page it 
is said to be Christiano-Platonical, is not it ? 
What year was it printed in ? For sometimes 
from the date of a book one can understand the 
spirit of it a little better. 

AUBIN. 

It was in 1647. 

MARHAM. 

And this is 1847. It is singular, is not it ? 
I think that must have been one of Dr. More's 
earlier works. 

AUBIN. 

I think it was ; for it was printed at Cambridge, 



ETJTHANASY. 243 

which would seem to show that the writer had not 
at that time left the University. Then there is 
this ; — the author dedicates the book to his dear 
father, Alexander More, Esquire, and says that 
he pleases himself with embalming his name to 
immortality, who next under God is the author of 
his life and being. 

MARHAM. 

I like that ; for it is affectionately, and rever- 
ently, and simply said. 

AUBIN. 

There is what is affecting in loving words like 
these, outlasting so long the hand that wrote them 
and the eyes they were meant for. The right 
hand of the philosopher and affectionate son is 
dust, but his ideas are living still : and one is 
willing to think of this as being in accordance 
with the immortality of the spirit, and as some 
effect of it. 

MARHAM. 

Yes, it is exactly two centuries since Dr. Hen- 
ry More published this book, perhaps this very 
month, or even day. But what a season it was 
in which for a poet to sing his Song of the Soul ! 
For it was a time of civil war ; counties, and 
towns, and many houses, divided against them- 
| selves ; doubts in men's minds, and troopers 
on the high-roads ; King Charles at Hampton 
Court, the Parliament in London, and the army 



244 EUTHANASY. 

at St. Albans, all three powers being opposed 
to one another. Ay, and 1647 was the year 
in which George Fox got spiritually enlight- 
ened. But for one minute, let me look into 
his Journal. Yes ! At the beginning of the 
year he says that his troubles continued, and 
there were many temptations over him ; that 
He fasted much, walked abroad in solitary places 
many days, and often took his Bible and sat 
in hollow trees and lonesome places till night 
came on, and frequently in the night walked about 
mournfully by himself. But before the end of 
the year he records that he had great openings, 
and that he saw the mountains and the rubbish 
burning up, and the rough, crooked ways and 
places made smooth and plain, for the Lord to 
come into his tabernacle ; that he saw the infinite 
love of God ; and that he saw, also, that there is 
an ocean of darkness and death, but an infinite 
ocean of light and love which flows over the 
ocean of darkness. And, O, then, he says, he 
saw his troubles, trials, and temptations more 
clearly than ever he had done ; for as the light 
appeared, all appeared that is out of the light ; 
that darkness, death, temptations, the ungodly, 
the unrighteous, all were manifest and seen in the 
light. He says soon afterwards, that he was come 
up in the spirit, through the flaming sword, into 
the Paradise of God ; that he knew nothing but 



EUTHANASY. 245 

pureness, innocency, and righteousness, being re- 
newed up into the innocency of God by Christ 
Jesus ; so that he was come up to the state which 
Adam was in before he fell. 

AUBIN. 

There was great likeness between Fox and 
More, both in their minds and views. But that 
is a thing which would not have been readily be- 
lieved by George Fox, the despiser of colleges 
and the enemy of steeple-houses. Of this Song 
of the Soul, the first part is a Christiano-Platon- 
ical display of life, which I have read, but which 
I cannot easily give an account of. But, O ! in 
the description of the character of God there is 
one line, quaint but endearing, and which is very 
good : — 

Father of lights and everlasting glee. 

Is not it a happy line, uncle ? 

MARHAM. 

Yes, Oliver. But is not it in a passage which 
I can understand ? What is the subject of it ? 

AUBIN. 

The Triad of Plato. In the notes to the 
poem, Dr. More says that the third person of this 
Triad is Love ; and that Peter Lombard held 
that the Holy Ghost is the same. To be influ- 
enced by this Divine Love is for our souls to be 
baptized with the Holy Spirit ; and this is the 
baptism which is salvation. Baptism in the name 



246 ETJTHANASY. 

of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit is 
of more consequence than the reading of all the 
learned and acute tracts about the Trinity ; for 
that is what might be permitted to the Devil, but 
the other is the privilege only of the good and 
pious man. Baptism of the Christian spirit, 
coming from the Father and through the Son, is 
the certainty of salvation. 

MARHAM. 

And so I believe. Now you have turned to 
what seems another part of the poem. 

ATJBIN. 

And it is what pleases me most ; perhaps be- 
cause T understand it best. The immortality of 
the soul is a truth which is not bright except to 
the pure in heart. The soul has power rising 
from within itself; but is it therefore eternal? 
Man cannot be sure of it, and the more he thinks 
of it, the more he doubts. It is night, and a mis- 
erable man walks in it, for he cannot sleep. An 
angel comes to him and tells him the manner of 
spiritual life. 

And more for to confirm this mystery, 
She vanished in my presence into air; 
She spread herself with the thin, liquid sky. 
But I thereat fell not into despair 
Of her return, nor wailed her visage fair, 
That so was gone. For I was waxen strong 
In this belief, that nothing can impair 
The inward life, or its hid essence wrong. 
the prevailing might of a sweet, learned tongue ! 



EUTHANASY. 247 

The soul is not a body, nor a spread form, nor 
any quality of a body ; so it is not subject to the 
laws of matter, and therefore not to death. Also 
that the soul is not corporeal, and is not mortal, 
is to be proved from the nature of our rational 
powers, and especially from our being capable of 
religion. Now are not these two stanzas admira- 
ble ? O, they are, very ! 

But true religion, sprung from God above, 
Is like her fountain, full of charity, 
Embracing all things with a tender love, 
Full of good-will and meek expectancy, 
Full of true justice and sure verity, 
In heart and voice ; free, large, even infinite ; 
Not wedged in strait particularity, 
But grasping all in her vast, active spright. 
Bright lamp of God! that men would joy in thy pure light ! 

Can souls that be thus universalized, 
Begot into the life of God, e'er die ? 

MARHAM. 

That is well asked ; and that description of 
what religion is is truly Christian. 

AUBIN. 

Can souls ever die that have been living in God, 
and in some manner like God ? 

Can they fly 
Into a nothing ? And hath God an eye 
To see himself thus wasted and decay 
In his true members ? Can mortality 
Seize upon that which doth itself display 
Above the laws of matter or the body's sway ? 



248 EUTHANASY. 

Now, uncle, excepting in the Bible, a finer thing 
has never been said than this asking if God could 
bear to see souls perish. O, it is boldly, and 
tenderly, and grandly asked ! 

MARHAM. 

A good man Henry More was, we may be 
sure, for it was out of the treasure of a good 
heart that those thoughts came. 

AUBIN. 

Ask the soul whether God is one thing, and 
she answers that he is not ; or whether he is 
another thing, and she says that he is not ; or 
whether he is sometimes in one place and some- 
times in another, or always present everywhere, 
and she makes answer at once, that God is omni- 
present. 

So that it is plain, that some kind of insight 
Of God's own being in the soul doth dwell ; 
Though what God is we cannot yet so plainly tell. 

But we Can tell from this what we ourselves are. 
We are souls. For it is not with our hands, nor 
with any of our bodily senses, that we feel God ; 
nor 

Can aught born of this carcass be so free, 
As to grasp all things in large sympathy. 

Reckon up all the properties of the human body, 
and they will not account for all the feelings 
that we have. There is, then, a soul in man ; • 
and she 



EUTHANASY. 249 

Foresees her own condition. She relates 
The all-comprehension of eternity ; 
Complains she is thirsty, in all estates ; 
That all she sees or has don't satisfy 
Herhungry self, nor fill her vast capacity. 

This alone might persuade us of our being des- 
tined to a higher life. Only what we most long 
for we are so slow to believe ! We can never be 
sure enough about it ; if we are well convinced 
of it, then we want to be more strongly convinced ; 
and if ourselves we are certain, then we want to 
have the mouths of all doubts stopped, both in 
men and books. We may believe ourselves im- 
mortal, from the nature of the connection between 
the soul and the body. The soul was not made 
for the body, but the body for the soul ; and 

when this work shall fade, 
The soul dismisseth it as an old thought. 

Then reflect on the difference there is between 

the influences which act upon the soul ; for some 

of them are from this outward world, and others 

are from the spiritual world. 

When we are clothed with this outward world, 
Feel the soft air, behold the glorious sun, 
All this we have from meat, — 

and from bodily feelings that are kept alive by 
food. But our mouths open themselves through 
appetites created in us, which appetites are the 
natural man. That is first which is natural ; but 
afterward there is that which is spiritual ; for 



250 ETTTHANASY. 

there are created in us spiritual capabilities. And 
what earth and sky are to our bodies, the world of 
spirit is to our souls. And so we may know our- 
selves to be closely related to the everlasting ; for 

In the higher world there is such communion. 

Christ is the sun, that, by his cheering might, 

Awakes our higher rays to join with his pure light. 

And when he hath that life elicited, 
He gives his own dear body, and his blood, 
To drink and eat. Thus daily we are fed 
Unto eternal life. 

And now comes a long proof of the earth's re- 
volving round the sun. 

MARHAM. 

But what can be the purpose of that, in an ar- 
gument on the immortality of the soul ? 

AUBIN. 

If the strength of outward impressions is to be 

corrected and conquered by our right reason, then 

we see 
That we have proper, independent might, 
In our own mind, behold our own idea, 
"Which needs must prove the soul's sure immortality. 

And now against the fear of death, the conscious- 
ness of justice is of great help ; for 

Strange strength resideth in the soul that 's just. 
Then man may expect a happy immortality from 
the character of his Maker. For it is blasphem- 
ing the name of God to say that he does, or can 
do, any thing else than love us human creatures of 



EUTHANASY. 251 

his. For an instance, suppose it possible that our 
Creator does not care for us, and lets our souls be 
at the mercy of enemies, and then feel the con- 
sequences. Now are not these lines very touch- 
ing ? They are not to be believed for a minute, 
and yet they might almost make one weep. God ! 
God, my Maker ! — 

I feel that he is loved 
Of my dear soul, and know that I have borne 
Much for his sake ; yet is it not hence proved 
That I shall live. Though I do sigh and mourn 
To find his face, his creature's wish he '11 slight and scorn. 
When I breathe out my utmost vital breath, 
And my dear spirit to my God commend, 

I shall find that God does not care for me at all ; 

I shall be wretched, and without help, and be the 

victim of enemies ; — 

Though I in heart's simplicity expected 
A better doom, since I my steps did bend 
Toward the will of God. and had detected 
Strong hope of lasting life ; but now I am rejected. 

That a good man should die a death like this is 
what cannot be. And then we must believe that 
God is good, or there can be no faith in any 
thing. So that predestination and its kindred 
doctrines are not even to be mentioned, nor 
such odd thoughts, that thus pervert 
The laws of God, and rashly do assert 
That will rules God, but good rules not God's will. 

And then, in reference to the doctrine that some 
men are elected to perdition, he says, — 



252 ETJTHANASY. 

I 

horrid blasphemy! 

That heaven's unblemished btauty thus dost stain ! 
There is nothing God possibly can wish, but the 
good of his creatures. There is nothing in us he 
can intend, but happiness ; for there is nothing 
God can want for himself, because his own na- 
ture is sufficient for him, being infinitely full and 
glad and excellent. In order to be saved, a man 
has only to be willing, has only to be sincere and 
without hypocrisy, has only not to be excusing 
his sins to his conscience, and extenuating them 
to his friends. For God, with his spirit, is 
everywhere, and always and anxiously he is try- 
ing to win 

Unto himself such as be simply true, 
And with malignant pride resist not him ; 
But strive to do what he for right doth shew ; 
So still a greater light he brings into their view. 

God is the life of all lives, and the strength of all 

things ; and so he is to be firmly trusted in. But 

holy trust is not a thing to be argued step by 

step ; for what it is, words 

Cannot declare, nor its strange virtue show. 
That 's it holds up the soul in all her woe, 
That death, nor hell, nor any change, doth fray. 
Who walks in light knows whither he doth go. 
Our God is light ; we, children of the day. 
God is our strength and hope : what can us, then, dismay 1 

MARHAM. 
That is true and to be trusted. Yes, — 
God is our strength and hope : what can us, then, dismay ? 



EUTHANASY. 253 

AUBIN. 

Here are ingenious answers to such questions 
as why Adam was made with such a loose will as 
to have forfeited Paradise so foolishly ; if souls 
can exist of themselves, why they should be in- 
closed in wretched bodies ; why the world was 
not made larger than it is, and much sooner than 
it was. 

MARHAM. 

These are the greater secrets of the Divine 
counsel. Christ never spoke of them. And 
with these infinite questions, we finite creatures 
are worse than water-flies thinking to struggle up 
the falls of Niagara. But you are turning over 
the pages very fast, Oliver. 

ATJBIN. 

From old age, it might be thought that the 

spirit might very likely live without the body. 

For often, while the body weakens, the soul 
strengthens. 

Mild, gentle, quick, large, subtile, serene, — 
These be her properties ; which do increase, 

though the body may be losing strength. In old 
age, a man may not have passion set through his 
soul like a whirlwind, nor like a breeze ; — 

But the will doth flower 
And fairly spread ; near to our last decease, 
Embraceth good with much more life and power, 
Than ever she could do in her fresh, vernal hour. 



254 EUTHANASY. 



This is said not without some beauty, as well as 
truth ; is not it, uncle ? We are sure of a future 
life. But of what kind will that life be ? It will 
be like what we are ourselves. At death, the 
souls of men are drawn, through their feelings, into 
their right places, quite naturally and exactly ; for 

God, heaven, this middle world, deep glimmering hell, 
"With all the lives and shapes that there remain, — 
The forms of all in human souls do dwell. 
She likewise all proportions doth contain ; 
Which fits her for all spirits. 

And so, like a bad man drawn into bad company 

in an evening, the soul that is bad will in the 

future world be drawn into the outer darkness. 

But heaven will draw into itself what souls are 

good ; and also these souls will be drawn into 

places fittest for them ; and those that have been 

holiest will be drawn nighest to God. 

What now remains, but, since we are so sure 
Of endless life, that to true piety 
We bend our minds, and make our conscience pure, 
Lest living night in bitter darkness us immure 1 

MARHAM. 

It is day with us yet ; it is what we can call 
to-day ; and while we can call it so, we will work. 

AUBIN. 

While in the body, if the soul were to keep 
her attention 

fast fixed on high, 
In midst of death 't were no more fear or pain, 



EUTHANASY. 255 

Than 't was unto Elias to let fly 
His useless mantle to that Hebrew swain, 
While he rode up to heaven in a bright, fiery wain. 

That is a noble image, is not it ? It makes me 
feel as though this garment of flesh might be slip- 
ped at the last easily, and like a cloak. 

MARHAM. 

Thank you, Oliver. Your account of the 
book has pleased me, and I hope it may do me 
some good; 

AUBIN. 

At the end of it, the book states its purpose to 
be to make the readers of it think two things ; 
one of which is, that every holy soul hereafter 
shall enjoy a never-fading felicity in the invisible 
and eternal heaven, the intellectual world. 

MARHAM. 

But what else is the book to prove ? 

AUBIN. 

That this world is a commixture of light and 
darkness ; but that God will through his power 
rescue those souls that are faithful in their trial, 
and that prefer the light before the dark, deliver- 
ing them from living death and hell by that strong 
arm of their salvation, Jesus Christ. 

MARHAM. 

It is a good book. I have long wished to 
know what was in it ; I might have read it for 
myself, and I ought to have done so, perhaps ; 



256 EUTHANASY. 

but I was frightened at the Platonic words in it, 
and at its being in not very good verse. But by 
your help, Oliver, I like the book. 

ATTBIN. 

And by that liking, you may know yourself to 
be a living soul, and so a soul to live for ever. 
Throughout the book there is the spirit of im- 
mortality, which you feel, and that is because you 
are yourself immortal ; for 

Only the spirit can the spirit own ; 
just as the light can only be seen by light. 

MARHAM. 

That one line is a thing worth thinking of. 

ATJBIN. 

So it is ; and by itself it would make us fel- 
low-debtors with Abraham Cowley. For you 
and I, uncle, — we feel what the poet would 
seem to have felt at a time of life when he knew 
how much he had been bettered by the philoso- 
pher ; and so we will say that we have learned 
things of infinite advantage from the admirable 
Dr. Henry More, of Christ's College, who is to 
be looked upon as one of those bright stars which 
God permitted to shine on a darkened age, — 
stars whose lustre be has never suffered to be 
entirely wanting. 

MARHAM. 

I do not know why, but always I have had 
some affection for the name of Henry More. 



ETJTHANASY. 257 

AUBIN. 

Uncle, it is because you are the better for him. 
And you are not one of the multitude who are 
unwilling to return, or even acknowledge, any 
good which is done them without their asking. 
Some time since, when we were reading the Di- 
vine Dialogues, you said you should like to know 
where Henry More was buried, so as to have his 
tomb cared for. But if he had been living, and 
been in want of bread, you would not have been 
the friend to have only intended him a stone after 
his death. In the latter part of his life, high pre- 
ferment in the Church was offered him, but I 
suppose his conscience hindered his acceptance of 
it. However, he always lived easily, though, as 
it would appear from his own words, not quite as 
prosperously as he might have done, if he had 
not been the earnest, pure thinker that he was. 
But who asked him to philosophize in religion, 
instead of making money for himself, or taking 
his pleasure ? Who asked him to write on the 
grounds of faith in religion, and on the mystery of 
godliness ? The Song of the Soul, — who ask- 
ed it from him ? It might be answered, that the 
prophets became such without any man's asking 
them ; though, after having been stoned, they were 
commonly reverenced for having been inspired. 
Here are these books about us for which the 
world is the wiser, and through the writing of 
17 



258 EUTHANASY. 

which men are not the Calmucks, and the Hot- 
tentots, and the Cossacks, they would otherwise 
have been ; and yet in many a one there is the 
question, as to why he should be grateful. Who 
asks authors to write ? To this worldly question 
one of them says, that he has no share in the 
choice of his lot as a thinker, except his readiness 
to be an organ for God to work with among men ; 
and another makes such a helpless, yet such a 
touching answer, — 

This is the thing that I was horn to do ; 
This is my scene ; this part must I fulfil. 

MARHAM. 

If it is not for fame, nor money, nor for self- 
interest in any other way, that a man of genius 
writes, then it must be because he is constrained 
to the work from within himself, and in a manner 
that I can well believe to be quite strange and in- 
credible to a selfish man. 

AUBIN. 

These great thinkers, then, we will love like 
brethren of ours ; for so they are ; — not after the 
flesh, indeed, but they are our kindred after the j 
spirit, and through God. And by our loving : 
them, they are to be understood the better, and 
they make us very much the better. Because 
it is only from the height of our nature that we 
can love those of a high nature. And we our- \ 
selves grow gentle, by loving a writer of gentle 



EUTHANASY. 259 

thoughts. And there are devout men, the affec- 
tionate remembrance of whose names makes the 
soul ready for prayer. So God be blessed for 
the great men we know of ! 

MARHAM. 

And make us be like them in all good respects ! 

AUBIN. 

A truth cannot be rightly felt without love, — 
without the author of it being to us a brother to 
be proud of. The foolish homage to great men 
that the multitude sometimes show comes of right- 
ful impulses in them, — of a way of feeling which 
God has made in them for their good ; and that 
will be shown more becomingly, and lovingly, 
and wisely, in wiser ages. A man makes himself 
; closely akin to excellence, does himself grow ex- 
i cellent, by making a noble thinker, or a hero, or a 
• saint, be his brother if he can. This is a great 
truth ; and it is what reaches farther and higher 
than would often be believed. For even if there 
9 is a mere sufferer from pain, or for righteousness' 
J sake, and there is sympathy felt for him, then 
9, there are other men who are the better for him, 
and with his stripes who are healed. What I 
mean is this, uncle, — and it is what my soul feels, 
s like a truth of God, — that through fellow-feeling 
with them that are great in soul there is to be 
caught a temper, a frame of mind, a spirit, just 
ready to be great, and that will open into great- 
ness at once in the world to come. 



260 EUTHANASY. 

MARHAM. 

Oliver, what you have said — I mean — I 
have a strange feeling of its being right ; but how, 
I do not know. But it is a strange power which 
we men have over one another. Oliver, my 
mind is growing more like yours. I am sure it 
is. It is as though — however, what you have 
been saying is true — yes ! it is reasonable, quite. 
Men may like reading the New Testament as 
well as any other book ; and may be fond of the 
excitement of religion ; but they are saved through 
our Lord Jesus Christ only by their loving him. 
And from the Scriptures it would appear that in 
Apostolic times by some men the truth was re- 
ceived with pleasure, yet not in love, and so not 
unto salvation. 

ATJBIN. 

Hereafter the multitudes of souls will show like 
cities that have been ruled over by the good and 
faithful men of ten talents and of five. And it 
will be seen how our minds are profiting now 
under the rulers of the world of thought 

MARHAM. 

And not ungratefully, I hope, Oliver. 

ATJBIN. 

No soul can profit much while it is ungrateful ; 
for while it is so, it can be the better neither for 
a friend to talk with, nor for a poet to feel with, 
nor for a philosopher to think with, nor even for 



: 



ETJTHANASY. 261 

that first-born of every creature whom men are 
saved by. Praise to the men, then, for whose 
writings I am the better ! I have in me thoughts 
of their thinking, and they have from me dear 
love of mine ; and so we are members one of 
another, — yes, we are, though we have never 
seen one another. And so we are members of 
the kingdom of heaven, and none the less surely 
for our never having seen it. But it is to be felt 
by us, of ourselves, and, O, so plainly and so 
happily by the help of some few greater souls 
from amongst us ! Blessings on them, whether in 
this world or the next ! Blessings on them from 
the Highest ! 



262 EUTHANASY. 



CHAPTER XXIV. 

We are what suns, and winds, and waters make us. 
The mountains are our sponsors, and the rills 
Fashion and win their nursling with their smiles. 

W. S. Landob. 

The soul of man is larger than the sky, 
Deeper than ocean, or the abysmal dark 
Of the unfathomed centre. Like that ark, 
Which in its sacred hold uplifted high, 
O'er the drowned hills, the human family, 
And stock reserved of every living kind, 
So in the compass of the single mind 
The seeds and pregnant forms in essence lie, 
That make all worlds. — Hartley Coleridge. 

ATJBIN. 

O this summer day ! It is a great calm in 
nature. There is not a bird in the air that I can 
see. Listen ! How still it is ! There is noth- 
ing to be heard but the two or three flies in the 
room here. So quiet, yet so earnest, life feels to 
me just now. There is such sublimity in a day 
like this. To me the stillness of it is like the 
peace of God. I feel as though brooded over 
by almightiness. And the bright light is God's 
presence about me, looking my spirit through and 
through. 

HABEAS. 

To me sometimes a calm like this feels awful 
almost, — and like a lull in a storm. The world 
is so vast, that 



EUTHANASY. 263 

ATJBIN. 

The universe is great, but it is greatness of my 
own that I see in it ; it is glorious, but it is glory 
of my own that it is bright with ; it is wisdom in 
motion, but it is knowledge of mine which it 
moves to ; for the mind that is in it all I am made 
with, and the Maker of it is my Father. 

MARHAM. 

It is better to speak of the grandeur of the 
soul in Scriptural language ; for so it sounds less 
presumptuous, and perhaps is so. We men are 
made in the image of God. 

ATJBIN. 

And so more nobly than the universe. For 
there must be a something of infinity in what is 
a likeness of the infinite. Yes, man's is a des- 
tiny more lasting than that of suns and planets. 
Nay, I do not doubt but that, in the eye of an 
angel rejoicing over these lower treasures of God, 
there are some souls that already are counted be- 
fore the earth and the sun. My nature, — it is 
not only what I am, but what I may be. Ay, 
what I may be ! To the greatness of that, this 
world is little ; Alps and Andes though it be, 
Mediterranean and Atlantic, American woods and 
Arctic snows. 

MARHAM. 

Perhaps so, Oliver. But something else is true. 
You may see thousands of other worlds at night, 



264 EUTHANASY. 

but you cannot visit one. Earth owns you, and 
holds you to her ; and she scorches you by turn- 
ing you to the sun, and freezes you by letting her 
north wind against you. With her west wind you 
are gladdened, and with her east wind you are 
withered, and with her speed you are carried cap- 
tive over the fields of space. 

AUBIN. 

True ; but then the earth does not know her- 
self, but I know her ; her own course she does 
not know, but I know it ; and her swiftness in it 
she does not know, but I know it, to a yard and a 
moment. And so I am the earth's better. Yes, 
and what are laws over her are service for me ; 
and the expansiveness of water is my swiftness. 

MARHAM. 

You have said well and ingeniously, and, Oli- 
ver, much to my pleasure ; for the soul is greater 
than the earth. And I do believe that there are 
eyes, in which even the first thought of a child is 
so bright as to eclipse the sun and moon. But 
these are feelings that are perhaps unsafe for us, 
except upon our knees, and with our faces in our 
hands. 

AUBIN, 

And it is from out of the depth of our humility 
that the height of our destiny looks grandest. 
For let me truly feel that in myself I am nothing, 
and at once, through every inlet of my soul, God 



EUTHANASY. 265 

comes in and is every thing in me. Weak, very- 
weak, I am, and I would not be otherwise, if only 
I can keep looking towards righteousness ; — this 
is what I think sometimes ; and as soon as I feel 
this, the almightiness of God pours through my 
spirit like a stream, and I am free, and I am joy- 
ful, and I can do all things through Him that 
strengthened! me. 

MARHAM. 

Yes, and what God is in the earth and the sea, 
that and more than that he is in the soul, — in 
the humble soul. 

ATJBIN. 

God is the centre of all truth, and so it is to 
be most largely seen from nighest him. 

MARHAM. 

To moral and to religious worth, humility is an 
essential, and it is quite needful for the best uses 
of the intellect. 

AUBIN. 

So it is, and many an instance would show it ; 
but they are not necessary to tell of. If the soul 
has God within it, then there is in it an affinity 
with all truth in science, philosophy, art, and re- 
ligion. God's I am, — God's everlastingly, — 
God's to grow for ever. There will grow in me 
the whole wisdom in which this world is made ; 
and the workings of my mind will be as grand as 
starry movements some time. 



266 EUTHANASY. 

MARHAM. 

Oliver, dear Oliver, your words are so high ! 
I do not mean irreverent ; but they sound as 
though they could not be used in prayer, and 
our thoughts should not be too proud for that, if 
we can help it. 

AUBIN. 

Uncle, there have been worshippers whose na- 
ture it was to adore God from the tops of lofty 
towers. It was on the highest hill in Jerusalem 
the temple was built. It was in a mountain that 
Moses talked with God. And it was up into 
a mountain Jesus Christ went to pray, himself 
alone, one greater time. And it is from the 
loftier of my contemplations that God feels most 
adorable. And it is in the thought of what he 
will make me, that I am most awed by what he 
is himself, and must be. 

MARHAM. 

That is a right feeling, Oliver. 

AUBIN. 

An archangel has perhaps a telescopic eye, 
that makes a familiar thing of a field like our so- 
lar system ; he knows the plan of the ages in 
many a world ; he feels principalities and powers 
like dust beneath him ; yet in the magnitude of 
his mind God is but magnified the more : just as 
we mortals, going up into a mountain, see the 
more plainly that it is not on the horizon of the 



EUTHANASY. 267 

earth that the dome of the firmament rests, as 
children think. From his exaltation, the archan- 
gel does but abase himself the more ; and he 
climbs the higher, but to look the wider, and to 
cry the more awfully, — O the depth of the rich- 
es both of the wisdom and knowledge of God ! 
And so again he rises still higher ; for it is not 
in this world only that he who abases himself is 
exalted. 

MARHAM. 

It is so, and only so, that weakness is made 
strong in the world of spirit. O, it is a happy 
thing to feel ourselves helpless and naught, for 
then the presence of God is felt to wrap us about 
so lovingly ! Everlasting, infinite, almighty, — 
these are words that strengthen us with speaking 
them. 

AUBIN. 

All in all, God is the soul of our souls, and 
the life of nature. 

MARHAM. 

Of all, and through all, and in us all, and the 
giver of every good and perfect gift. 

AUBIN. 

Yes. God is in the frost, and when the sav- 
age is starved into a habit of forethought, it is a 
lesson from the Father of spirits which he has 
had. Astronomy is acquaintance with the laws 
of the stars, and those laws are the wisdom and 



268 ETJTHANASY. 

the almightiness of God ; so that knowledge of 
them is fellowship with God, in some sense. 
And the same is true of all natural philosophy ; 
for it is the philosophy of nature which is wisdom 
of God in practice ; and so, in attaining the knowl- 
edge of it, they are truths from God we get. 

MARHAM. 

But a very poor knowledge of God. 

AUBIN. 

So it is, by itself. But I do not say it is 
knowledge of God, so much as knowledge from 
him. The soul, or rather knowledge, is quick- 
ened within us by heat and cold, day and night, 
and the necessities of life. It is because the 
world is what it is, that we are what we are. 

MARHAM. 

Mentally. 

ATJBIN. 

Yes, and in some moral respects our souls are 
made by the world about us. There is a likeness 
between some appearances in nature and moods 
of our minds. 

MARHAM. 

I do not understand you, quite. No doubt, we 
do not always feel the same with nature. 

AUBIN. 

In the dark, every thing is shut out from us 
but the omnipresent ; and so in darkness the 
Godhead wraps us round like a felt presence. 



EUTHANASY. 

Sometimes a clear night is just what calms me ; 
and while I am walking in it, high truths rise 
upon my soul, like stars above the horizon. And 
moonlight among the trees makes one readier to 
feel the beauty of holiness. In nature, one view 
calms the soul, another purifies it, and another 
sublimes it. 

MARHAM. 

Night and morning, and sunset, snowy winter, 
and leafy summer, vary the look of nature, no 
doubt ; but it is possible, in the sight of the same 
scene, and at the same time, for one man to feel 
one way, and another another ; for one looker 
to be solemnized, and another to be made more 
hopeful. 

ATJBIN. 

Just as, by looking on the blessed face of Christ, 
a happy person would rejoice more purely, and a 
tearful one sorrow more holily, and a sinner feel 
remorseful, and a righteous man drink righteous- 
ness in. And so it is with nature ; and what it 
makes in us is most blessedly felt by the soul, 
which is a child of God, through Christ. O, out 
in the country, sometimes, my soul feels wrapped, 
as though in the arms of the Great Father. It is 
as though the wind whispered me divine messa- 
ges ; and it is as though divine meaning broke 
upon me from out of the clouds, and the hill- 
sides, and from among the stars. And I know 



270 ETJTHANASY. 

that I am growing and am destined to grow into 
the spirit of it all, — into the brightness of the 
sun, and the majesty of night, — into the purity of 
winter, and the contentment of summer. 

MARHAM. 

What you speak of, I feel only sometimes, 
and not every day. Perhaps this is through 
some fault in me. But they are holy recollec- 
tions which I have, of having felt as you describe. 

AUBIN. 

Holy recollections, — so they are. And most 
trustworthy is what we feel at such times ; for the 
soul is then in her purer, and therefore truer 
moods. In summer and winter, day and night, 
seed-time and harvest, and in the whole order 
of nature, so perfect, it is as though a persuasive 
voice were always saying, " Trust me." In corn- 
fields and orchards, it is as though, from among 
the yellow corn and out of the tree-tops, it were 
said to thoughtful listeners, " O, taste and see 
that the Lord is good ! " And the westerly wind 
is like a soft whisper from out of the infinite, say- 
ing, " God is love ; hope thou in him." Then, 
in the hearing of all these voices, rises in 'my soul 
the sweet persuasion, "Dwell thou here with an 
understanding heart, and die thou shalt with a tri- 
umphant one." Yes, faith is the easier for the 
way that nature makes us feel. 

MARHAM. 

From what you have said, it would seem so. 



ETJTHANASY. 271 

AUBIN. 

Many of the moods of our souls are the deeper 
for the effect on us of the world outside us. 
Spiritual feelings have the same words to describe 
them as many qualities of outward nature have, 
— pure, open, high, bright, infinite, dark, nar- 
row, gentle, rapid, harmonious, misty, clouded, 
beautiful. In the soul, there is a midnight and a 
mid-day ; and there is a spring, there is a sum- 
mer, an autumn, and there is a winter. Some- 
times in the soul there are what are like tempests. 
And there are seasons in which, in the mind, 
thought flashes like lightning. I think there are 
sights in the sky, and states of the air, and scenes 
among trees, and from hill- tops, which have af- 
fected my way of feeling about life, and my fel- 
low-men, and the future. 

MARHAM. 

Why, Oliver, how can that be ? 

AUBIN. 

One season there had been a long, hard frost, 
with an easterly wind, making it be bitterly cold ; 
but one morning there came such a warm breeze 
from the south as was delightful to breathe. I 
walked up and down the lane I lived in, and I 
drew long, deep breaths. I felt like a prisoner 
just free. I was as one freshly escaped from 
evil. I was cheerful, hopeful, and as though the 
whole world had brightened about me. Now this 



272 EUTHANASY. 

was what I must often have felt after frosts, and 
after long rain. And I remember thinking it was 
a way of feeling which made it readier for me to 
believe in deliverance from misfortune. 

MARHAM. 

Well, Oliver, after cold, wet weather, on a 
warm, clear day, I have myself sometimes felt as 
though all hardships and sorrows were easily to 
be lived through ; but certainly I never thought a 
bright day was intended to make us think so. 

ATJBIN. 

Nature about us is a companionship, which our 
souls feel, and were meant to feel ; for there is 
to be caught from it a tone so peculiar, as to be 
intentional. Cheerful is what nature would make 
us, — not merry, nor melancholy. Now it is in 
cheerfulness that our moral faculties are freest, — 
that we most readily trust, and are kind, and con- 
trol ourselves. 

MARHAM. 

What you say is true, I think ; for as far as I 
can remember, there are only a very few sights or 
sounds in nature that are sad, or ludicrous, or 
wildly gay, — only just enough to make it remark- 
able that the rest are so uniformly cheerful. 

AUBIN. 

Birds do not sing frolicsome tunes, though they 
do sing happily ; the song of the lark is not jovial, 
and the nightingale is not a merry songster. The 



EIJTHANASY. 273 

bleat of the sheep and the low of the ox are not 
sad, nor yet mirthful, but serious. Winds, brooks, 
and rivers do not mourn ; and if in their sound 
there is any melancholy, it is only in Milton's 
sense of the word. The tone of nature is what 
it is, for us sons of God to learn, and for us to be 
cheerful from it. 

MARHAM. 

And in nature, what things are not to be called 
cheerful have, some of them, a moral effect on 
us ; and some of them make us laugh in a way 
that we are the better for. Yes, there is much in 
us which there would not have been, but for birds, 
and animals, and winds, and trees. 

ATTBIN. 

Last year's birds are dead, many of them ; but 
many of their songs are lasting on in men who 
heard them. In my spirit, there are some tones 
which are the fuller for the birds I have heard 
sing, — the lark in a morning in spring, the night- 
ingale on a summer's evening, the thrush against 
a storm, and the robin when the rain was over. In 
my mind, there is what has come of my being awed 
by thunderstorms, of hearing the wind in the woods, 
of feeling the air cool on an August evening, and of 
sitting on the sea-shore at the flow of the tide. 

% MARHAM. 

Yes, and of sitting still for an hour, on a day 
so hush as this, and feeling the peace of it. 

18 



274 EtJTHANASY. 

AUBIN. 

If I were none the better for the world I live 
in, I might fear leaving it, as being useless ; but 
now I shall leave it for what will better my soul 
still more. My faith is the more cheerful for 
what nature makes me feel ; and nature is God 
about me ; so that the cheerfulness of my faith is 
partly God's causing, — is what I am to be easy 
in, and to be sure that God likes. 

MARHA3I. 

Not every one, — and perhaps they are not 
many who hear the voices of the four seasons, 
and know what God means us to understand by 
his so clothing the grass of the field, — but every 
one that has ears to hear, can hear and under- 
stand those blessed words of Christ, — " Because 
I live, ye shall live also." But I think you said, 
that what nature means is rightly felt only by 
those that are spiritual, — that it is they who 
know best what the woods talk, and what cheer- 
fulness the birds sing. Always the earth is the 
same, but it may look more divine to us Chris- 
tians than it did to the heathen ; and perhaps the 
purer men become in heart, the more plainly they 
will see God in things about them. But always, 
and so gloriously, there will be the light of the 
knowledge of God in the face .of Jesus Christ. 

AUBIN. 

And that light shines through death, and shows 



EUTHANASY. 275 

it to be a phantom ; and it shines into the grave, 
and shows there is no victory in it. 

MARHAM. 

O, if I could only keep as strong in the faith 
as I am now ! and then I should die happily. 

AUBIN. 

If Jesus Christ had all power over my soul, 
and were present with me, and were to lay his 
hand upon me, I should say, "Lord, do with me 
what thou wilt." And if the horrors of death 
compassed me about, and frightful appearances 
of judgment took shape before my eyes, and if 
everlasting death gaped against me, I should not 
fear if I could look into the face of Christ ; for 
my soul would be calmed, and I should say, 
" What thou wilt, Lord, — whether it be life or 
death, — let it be for me what thou wilt, — O, 
what thou wilt ! " And shall I not feel this, and 
more than this, when I do come to die ? For the 
Father will be with me. And Jesus said that we 
ought to be glad of his having himself gone away, 
because it was to the Father. 

MARHAM. 

Christ in the flesh reappears no more among 
us. And it is well, it is surely well ; but to our 
souls, he is with us to the end of the world. 
And the thought of him ought to be enough for 
us, and a happy companionship to die in. Still, 
I do not wonder at Catholic attempts to feel 



276 EUTHANASY. 

Christ in the Mass, and in the sight of paintings 
of hi in. 

AUBIN. 

Well, I do wonder at it, because Christ is to 
be felt so blessedly within us, after doing his 
words. And then what Christ was in the flesh, 
God is in nature. And in the holier of my con- 
templative moods, it has been as though there 
were among the trees, and in the air, and in the 
mere passing of time, a presence like the mind 
of Christ. It was the feeling of the Father's 
being with me. 

MARHAM. 

And with us he is always, and in death we 
shall not be alone, for he will be with us. Per- 
haps, towards death, my fancy may get diseased 
as well as my body, and so the world be sick- 
lied to me, and there be no cheerfulness in the 
sunshine, nor in human voices, nor in homely 
comforts. Or perhaps I may become both blind 
and deaf, and have all sights and sounds shut out 
from me. 

AUBIN. 

But the Father is not to be shut out from the 
soul by any thing else than the soul's own act. 

MARHAM. 

Lord ! leave me not, neither forsake me ! 

AUBIN. 

Nor will he. Nor is it likely that this earth 



EUTHANASY. 277 

will be a dungeon to die in, if, to live in, it has 
been like the presence of God about us, vaguely, 
perhaps, but devoutly felt. 

MARHAM. 

If I should grow melancholy, I will remember 
what happy days I have had ; and I will think it 
is not the world that is altered, but myself, and 
not myself, even, so much as my nerves. 

ATJBIN. 

Desponding am I ? It is from my bodily dis- 
ease, and not from life's being gloomy. For is 
not the sun shining ? do not boys and girls play ? 
are not laborers singing at their work, at this very 
time ? and is not this a marriage-day with many 
and many a happy man and wife ? Sometimes 
melancholy is greater than it would otherwise be, 
through selfishness, through not rejoicing with 
them that do rejoice. And then, in itself, this 
earth is what we ought to die out of triumphantly. 
For in this lower world, has not God's presence 
been what rightly makes us long for a manifesta- 
tion of it, higher and still plainer ? 

MARHAM. 

Adversity I have had ; but much of it has 
come of my fellow-men. Pain I have had, but 
much of it has been of my own incurring. Dark 
days I have had, but then some have been very 
bright. And then I have had no suffering of any 
kind but might have been the making of my char- 



278 EUTHANASY. 

acter. So that the general impression of life up- 
on me ought to be encouraging and trustful 

ATTBIN. 

And a holy confidence in our destiny. Morn- 
ing after morning, God has gladdened me with 
light, so regularly, these many years. And night 
after night, he has curtained me round with dark- 
ness so peacefully, so blessedly, that I ought not 
to shrink from death only because the night of it 
is so very dark ; for though very dark, it is not 
the less divine. Nay, at its coming on, God's 
hand moves in it, almost to our feeling. 

MARHAM. 

Oliver, your words are very soothing, and I 
hope rightly so ; and, indeed, I think they are ; 
because, though lofty, they do not embolden or 
excite me. And among our thoughts, those 
which are grand and calm, both, are almost al- 
ways the truest. But your voice is soothing, and 
when you talk of the grave, you say the word 
in such a way as to make it feel like a spacious 
home, instead of a narrow house. 

ATJBIN. 

However, it is neither for us Christians, nor for 
us living souls. For what is a dead body ? It is 
a worn-out garment of the soul. It is what is to 
be reckoned along with the clothes, the books, the 
furniture, the instruments, of a deceased friend. 
And then the earth does not open into a grave, of 



ETJTHANASY. 279 

herself ; for it is man who digs that, and peoples 
it with horror. 

MARHAM. 

The body returns unto the earth as it was 

AUBIN. 

But the soul rises elsewhere, wise with the 
knowledge which has come of its earthly dwell- 
ing, and sometimes so grown into the spirit of this 
planetary system as to be like the rich germ of a 
new world. And such a soul does not rise un- 
heeded out of this earth into the realm of spirits. 
That is not to be thought, any more than it is 
likely that new stars rise out of an abyss by 
chance. 

MARHAM. 

For every new year, for every fresh state, for 
boyhood after infancy, for youth after boyhood, 
for manhood after youth, for my old age, — for 
every change in life, my soul has been the better, 
or might have been ; and so the last great change 
will be greatly the better for me, as I ought to 
believe. 

AUBIN. 

Rightly reasoned, uncle. Sometimes our fel- 
low-men wrong and grieve us ; but it is not in 
them we trust either for life or against death. If 
they wrong us, it is because they do not know 
what they do, — do not even know that they 
wrong themselves. It is easy to forgive them, — 



280 EUTHANASY. 

poor fellow-creatures. Bat what is not so easy, 
and yet is necessary for us, and is a duty, is to 
keep ourselves unembittered by even what ill- 
treatment we have quite forgiven. Because a 
soul, for being bitter, is the weaker in its faith 
both towards God and man, and in an hereafter. 

MAE.HAM. 

Ah ! if only we did love our enemies, then 
heaven would be a natural hope with us ; for 
commonly the man who loves most hopes the 
highest. I will try to be what I ought to be 
towards my fellow-creatures, and so I shall have 
joy and peace in believing. 

AUBIN. 

Yes, uncle. And, O ! this world is so beauti- 
ful, that it is like a Divine smile about us always ; 
and it is so hopeful, that we ought to die out of it 
quite willingly and courageously. 



EUTHANASY. 281 



CHAPTER XXV. 

Sublime is the faith of a lonely soul, 

In pain and trouble cherished ; 
Sublime the spirit of hope that lives, 

When earthly hope has perished. — John Wilson. 

AUBIN. 

The gloomy, gloomy world ! And so it is to 
a gloomy man. But it is a bright, bright world 
to me ; to-day at least it is. 

MAEHAM. 

And a very happy world it would be, if the 
people in it were as little covetous as you, Oliver. 

AUBIN. 

Ours, ours, — the world must be ours. Our 
God's it is ; but for a selfish man, that is not 
enough, or rather it is nothing. So many mil- 
lions of us want to have the world, every one for 
himself! And against this there are so many 
millions of impossibilities ! 

MARHAM. 

And if we had the whole world, there would 
still be our souls to be saved. 

AUBIN. 

Which in some countries is not a very easy 
thing for a man owning only a few miles of land. 



282 ETJTHANASY. 

The whole world ours, but without God in it ! 
Would any thing tempt us to take the atheistical 
ownership ? You shall have your own way in it ; 
God shall not mind you ; and there shall be in it 
no laws of right, or truth, or love, for you to 
know of. What you are and do, you shall be 
and you shall do, but without God ; and in your 
actions there shall be no Divine end answered ; 
and in what you become, there shall be no like- 
ness to God. The world shall be yours, all 
yours, but yours only, your miserable own. 

MARHAM. 

What a thought ! It is what would spread into 
a hell worse than Dante's. 

AUBIN. 

And the opposite of it is heaven, — indeed, 
the heaven of the Gospel. Ownership in the 
world I have none, but I have infinite interest in 
it ; for if not my own, it is my God's ; and so it 
is mine in a higher than a legal sense. Yes, this 
is the beauty, this is the whole sublimity, this is 
the tender delight of life, — that it is of God's 
governing. 

MAEHAM. 

What says the Psalmist ? The earth is the 
Lord's, and the fulness thereof. 

AUBIN. 

And it is mine, not in law, but better still, in 
God. I have a use of it with which sealed 



EUTHANASY. 283 

parchments have nothing to do. There is a tract 
of land ; the soil is rich ; the situation sheltered ; 
it is well wooded, and well watered, and like 
what lie along Yarrow ; — 

Fair scenes for childhood's opening bloom, 

For sportive youth to stray in ; 
For manhood to enjoy his strength, 

And age to wear away in. 

As I look at such a scene, at the garden, and the 
park, at the walks to walk in, the old trees to sit 
under, the wide view to be glad at, the meadows 
with the cattle in, and the fields perhaps yellow 
with corn, I am persuaded of there being in my 
circumstances a grandeur of promise greater than 
I can guess. For I think to myself, God could 
have made the scene of my life like that ; but as 
he has not, it is because it is better for me other- 
wise. Plenty, comfort, and delightfulness are 
withheld from me for a purpose. And so I think 
to myself, what a happy purpose it must prove. 
And from the things which I have not, I persuade 
myself of the glories that I am heir to. Or, 
rather, this is what. I used to do ; for now I have 
every comfort I could wish, through your kind- 
ness, dear uncle. 

MARHAM. 

Oliver, my dear Oliver, the kindness is yours. 
But do not mention it, for you humble me, — you 
do, indeed. For I know there is nothing I can 



284 EUTHANASY. 

do for you that can possibly be a return for the 
profit and pleasure of your conversation. It is 
only for your body I can do any thing ; but, Oli- 
ver, you help me to feel myself a soul, a living 
soul, in a world with God in it. 

AUBIN. 

A world with almightiness in it ; and so a 
world of infinite promise for us all. For what it 
is is pain and poverty to what it might be, and 
therefore to what it will be, or will be followed 
by ; for God is the Lord Almighty and Al- 
brightful. 

MARHAM. 

Almighty and Albrightful ! Whose words are 
those, for they are not yours, I think, nor this 

age's ? 

AUBIN. 

They are Wickliffe's. But as I was saying, 
uncle, I enjoy myself in other people's enjoy- 
ments. One of the happiest hours I ever had 
was at a village, one day, when there was a wed- 
ding there. The road between the bride's home 
and the church was spanned by arches of flowers. 
The bells rung ; and men and women all spoke 
cheerfully ; and the air was so still, as though 
waiting in the sunshine to listen to the bells. 
And up through the trees, to the church, came 
the wedding-party, — the bride in her modesty 
and grace, and the bridegroom in his joy and his 



EUTHANASY. 285 

strength. That my marriage-day could ever be 
a festival for a whole neighbourhood was not for 
me to think. But the general joy, and the rich 
dresses, and the scattering of flowers, and the 
thronging together of all the neighbours, and the 
peace of the bride and the bridegroom, as they 
came away from the church, with a blessing on 
them from their Father in heaven, — the happi- 
ness of all this was like my own, through sympa- 
thy. It was as though my heart were the larger 
for feeling it. And I went away from that sweet 
village with more hope in life, because they were 
creatures of my own nature who had been made 
so happy. 

MARHAM. 

Rejoice with them that do rejoice. And what 
comes of this commandment is indeed a tender 
and a holy joy. 

AUBIN. 

It would not be good for us all to be outwardly 
happy ; nor would there be room in the world 
for us all to have every thing we could wish. 
But there are some few of us whom Nature 
clothes in all her graces, and houses in all her 
comforts, and brings out to walk on smooth 
roads, in love and honor, from all their neigh- 
bours. And it is as though it were said to us, 
u Even out of this earth can you spirits be made 
thus happy when it is good for you." And then 



286 



EUTHANASY. 



the spirit within us witnesses, if we will let it, — 
" Even so ; and God be thanked ! t But better 
than happiness itself is the soul's trust that waits 
for it, — that patiently waits thy giving, Father of 
spirits ! " 

MARHAM. 

True, Oliver, true. 

ATJBIN. 

The love there is among dearly loving friends is 
what will be felt for me when I am known, as I 
shall be, hereafter. While I am in this right 
frame of mind, every happy event, everywhere, 
sounds in the telling like Divine encouragement 
saying to me, " Thou art not forgotten, my son, 
and for thee there is a blessing with thy Father in 
heaven." Already there are the beginnings of 
Divine justice in our lives, and they and our own 
sense of justice persuade us that right will be done 
to that instinct of happiness which is in us, if not 
in this life, then so surely in another. So that a 
righteous man in long pain, in poverty, or in sor- 
row, is a sight before heaven that helps to make 
immortality certain. 

MARHAM. 

And when such a man weeps, and we weep 
with him, we feel so tenderly that God cannot 
forget the sufferer. Nowhere have I found anoth- 
er life feel so sure as I have in a sick-room, after 
my having prayed by the bedside of some one 
dangerously ill. 



EUTHANASY. 287 

ATTBIN. 

From others being dear to us, we know how 
dear they must be to God. I trust God cares for 
me ; but that he cares for others I feel strongly, 
and almost as though I knew it by sight. It is 
through sympathy with others that we have the 
sweetest, or some of our sweeter assurances of 
Divine goodness. 

MARHAM. 

Have not we ourselves but 

AUBIN. 

There was a man that once injured me much, 
through religious bigotry. Afterwards, misfortune 
threatened him, and very pitifully, for he was 
an old man ; but it passed away from him at last, 
suddenly and very pleasantly. When I learned 
the news, which I did by letter, at once I knelt 
and worshipped God ; and then I thanked God 
for the sweet pleasure I felt. I think I have 
been more glad in God for what good fortune has 
happened to others, than for what has befallen 
myself. 

MARHAM. 

Why, Oliver, why should you, and how could 
you have done so ? And was it right ? It is 
very true that you have never had much happi- 
ness ; but when it was granted you at all, I think 
you ought 



288 ETJTHANASY. 

AUBIN. 

You do not understand me, uncle. I did not 
say that I had been more glad of other men's 
happiness than my own ; but that I had been 
more glad in God. Because it is long, very long, 
before we receive happiness properly. For we 
are too apt to take it as though it were our right, 
or our merit, or some w T ay our own getting. And 
then in the first possession of good fortune there 
is the feeling of gratified selfishness ; and that 
defiles the purity of joy in God. 

MARHAM. 

Hardly so, Oliver, surely. But your meaning 
is right, I think. The earth is full of the good- 
ness of the Lord ; and we ought to think of this, 
and not merely of what joy flows out of our own 
little fountains, which run dry sometimes, perhaps 
through their having been tampered with. 

AUBIN. 

To me, at times, the happier this earth seems, 
the surer heaven feels ; and for this reason, I sup- 
pose, — that to be grateful to God is to be confi- 
dent in him. So, along with some poet, 

I think of all the glorious things 

Which o'er this earth are spread, 
Of mighty peasants and the kings 

That under it lie dead. 

O those memories of the good and great, — how I 
love them ! And how much in the world there is 



EUTHANASY. 289 

to think of and love ! — green nooks between 
woody hills, with the sunshine on them, — corn- 
fields ready for reaping, — the harvest moon at its 
rising, — men fighting sublimely with the elements 
at sea, and on land turning them into service, — 
women in their beauty, and their strange, sweet 
power, — firesides with families about them, — 
the laugh of a little child, — the fondness of a 
Christian father, — the sensation of reading some 
very good book for the first time, and in man- 
hood, — and friendships, those true ones that are 
trusted in the more, the more God is trusted in. 
In all these things, what delight there is is not 
chance, but God ; and the more devoutly one 
feels it to be God, the more it feels like what 
will last and grow for ever. God in our enjoy- 
ment ! O, then there is a something of infinity in 
it ! Yes, God is in our happiness ; and because 
he has let us know of his being in it, he will be in 
it for us for ever. For the Father would not 
have let us know that his gifts to us are from 
above, and out of an infinite treasury, if he did 
not intend us more than we have, much more, 
infinitely more. 

MARHAM. 

So we will trust. 

AUBIN. 

And, uncle, so we ought to trust. For why 
are we made to recollect past pleasures ? Not 
19 




290 EUTHANASY. 

for us to regret them ; but so as for us, out of 
such remembrances, to hope in heaven the bet- 
ter. And, indeed, our highest thoughts do not 
reach what will be the level of our happiness 
hereafter. For every instant it will be sublimer 
than first hearing the organ in York Minster, and 
more tender than lovers' faith, and more joyful 
than a birthday with many friends to keep it, and 
more earnest than any earthly act of self-sacrifice. 
O, how free I shall feel hereafter ! And O the 
truths I shall know of, the beauty I shall see, and 
the friends I shall have ! At first our everlasting 
life will be like a summer's day, so calm, and 
beautiful, and long. But it will prove a day that 
will last on, and on, and on. And when no night 
comes, and we do not get weary, and all things 
keep on brightening about us, as the eyes of our 
understandings open, then, little by little, we shall 
begin, in awe and wonder, to feel what it is to be 
immortal. 



ETJTHANASY. 291 



CHAPTER XXVI. 

And being but one, she can do all things : and remaining in herself, she 
maketh all things new: and in all ages entering into holy souls, she mak- 
eth them friends of God and prophets. For God loveth none but him that 
dwelleth with wisdom. For she is more beautiful than the sun, and above 
all the order of the stars : being compared with the light, she is found be- 
fore it. — Wisdom of Solomon. 

But understand thou for thyself, and seek out the glory for such as be 
like thee. For unto you is paradise opened, the tree of life is planted, the 
time to come is prepared, plenteousness is ready, a city is builded, and 
rest is allowed, yea, perfect goodness and wisdom. — Esdras. 

ATJBIN. 

I do not think you like hearing of new discov- 
eries, uncle. 

MARHAM. 

Why, what can have made you think so, Oli- 
ver ? For it would be foolish in me to dislike 
new inventions, or newly discovered principles. 

But, — perhaps Well, I will confess, at 

first hearing, my feeling is not altogether pleasure 
in them. I do not know why it is not. Perhaps 
you can tell me. But you, Oliver, — you rejoice 
in any new discovery almost as though you had 
made it yourself. 

ATJBIN. 

So I do, and really for that reason. As re- 
gards a machine, the best thing is the invention of 




292 ETJTHANASY. 

it, the next best is understanding it, and a long 
way after this is the money it may be made to 
earn. Of all inventions, the best thing is the in- 
genuity in them ; and what is noblest in all dis- 
coveries is the mind with which they were made 
out. It is the soul that is the greatness of all hu- 
man achievements. And these great achieve- 
ments I love to hear of, for they make me feel 
my own greatness, and not presumptuously ; for 
in other men's crimes I acknowledge my own 
evil liabilities. Human nature is dear to me in 
every form of it, — in what is told of great kings, 
and in what I have myself learned from a beggar- 
woman, — in the prattle of infancy, in the eager 
movements of youth, and in the solemn words of 
a man ripe and ready for death. 

MARHAM. 

It is because you either have been, or may 
possibly be, in some such situations yourself. 

AUBIN. 

But then I love human nature as it is to be 
read of in Homer's Iliad, in the temples, on the 
obelisks, and in the tombs of Egypt, in the apoc- 
ryphal books of the Jews, in the Arabian Nights' 
Entertainments, in Snorro Sturleson's Sagas of 
the Norsemen, in the Chronicles of Jocelin of 
Brakelond, in Chaucer's Canterbury Tales, and 
in Catlin's account of the American Indians. 
Not exactly as Paul meant, yet quite truly, all 



EUTHANASY. 293 

over the world, and in all ages, we all have been 
made to drink into one spirit. If a man is a man 
in head and heart, and has been so in action be- 
sides, then he has an interest in all human things, 
and a something of right in them. What Beau- 
mont and Fletcher make a man say in one of 
their plays, I myself feel, and 

When any falls from virtue, I am distract, 
I have an interest in 't. 

It is but little I have been, or have had an op- 
portunity of being. Yet when I think of good 
and great men, sometimes there comes over my 
mind a strange feeling of fellowship in glory with 
them. In me, and in them, there is one soul, 
and I have not lived altogether unworthily of it ; 
and so in them I recognize my own nature as it 
is, or else as it may be made by prayer and the 
Divine grace. The end of Leonidas, and Ste- 
phen's martyrdom, are mirrors in which my soul 
sees her own devotedness. I can conceive, and 
partly I have lived, the pains and perseverance 
in which the pyramids of Egypt were built ; and 
so, in some sense, they are monuments of the la- 
boriousness of my nature. It is my own way of 
thinking and feeling that is in the better parts of 
the writings of Fenelon and George Fox ; and so 
from those books is reflected the character of my 
mind. The zeal of St. Paul, — Milton's patri- 
otism, — Pascal's purity, — Galileo's sight into 



294 



EUTHANASY. 



the stars, — the exactness of Cuvier's account of 
creatures that perished from this earth more than 
a myriad years ago, — what King Alfred was, — 
what "Washington was, — the mind of the Pilgrim 
Fathers, — O, what a cloud of witnesses these 
are ! And how they testify the greatness of the 
human soul ! With thoughts like these, the more 
my soul warms, the more immortal it feels, and 
rightly ; for one way I am every thing that I 
love ; and, indeed, altogether I am, almost. 

MARHAM. 

O, if only you could have health and strength ! 

AUBIN. 

And then, dear uncle, I should very likely be 
nothing remarkable. Because, for one famous 
man, there are a thousand, ay, and ten thousand, 
deservers. Excellence is commoner than is 
thought, the essence of it is ; only it does 
not get expressed, — sometimes out of modesty, 
sometimes for want of opportunity, but oftenest 
for want of some little knack. 

MARHAM. 

You think so ? But is not that as though some 
better souls had been made for impossible pur- 
poses ? 

AUBIN. 

Purposes impossible in this world, and there- 
fore so highly presumptive of another world. 
Often, for one hero, there are a hundred heroic 



EUTHANASY. 



295 



spirits, only they do not get into action. Because 
a hero needs five hundred square miles for a 
stage ; while that space of land is not meant to be 
only the theatre for one man to act in, but the na- 
tive country of ten million people. And so out 
of a hundred persons who are heroical by nature, 
one is allowed to be so in action ; and the rest, 
through sympathy with him, feel themselves, and 
know themselves, and grow stronger. And every 
thrill of their souls is prophetic of the high use 
which God will make of them all hereafter. 

MARHAM. 

That is well argued, Oliver. 

ATTBIN. 

If a man does earnestly what duty he has to 
do, then he is any and every character that he 
truly loves, — he is Howard, the philanthropist, 
and Sidney, the patriot, and John, the Apostle. 

MARHAM. 

You cannot mean 

AT7BIN. 

That he is those men, or what they really 
were ; but I mean that he is, and is truly, what 
they seem to him. As soon as I do thoroughly 
understand and feel Bacon's Essays, they may 
be regarded as utterances, — no ! every thing but 
that. They may then stand as the measure of 
my wisdom, — no ! not that ; but they may be 
regarded as the manner in which I should myself 



EUTHANASY. 

think, if only some little change, some slight free- 
dom, were wrought within my soul. How grand 
that engraving from Michael Angelo is ! And, 
O, what purity, what unearthly beauty, what 
heavenly-mindedness, there is in that Madonna of 
Correggio ! But what I see in these pictures is 
what I feel in my own mind ; and what I feel 
while looking at them is what I am capable of 
feeling in other things, — in duty, in virtuous as- 
pirations, in my prayers to God, and in my hymns 
to him, and in my thoughts of an hereafter. 

MARHAM. 

Oliver, I think the artist will be more availing 
in the world than he has ever been ; religiously, 
I mean. 

AUBIN. 

And so I think, uncle. But I do not think 
the Puritans were wrong in their age for dashing 
out painted windows, and removing pictures from 
churches, and pulling down organs, and unfrock- 
ing the choristers, and white-washing gilded orna- 
ments ; because it is possible a worshipper in a 
church may be the worse for such things as these ; 
and, indeed, he will be greatly the worse for them, 
unless he is earnest and enlightened. I think, 
uncle, I have noticed, that, wherever there is a 
great taste for music or painting, character is the 
better, or else very much the worse for it. One 
or two persons I know, the tone of whose minds 



ETJTHANASY. 297 

is to me revolting, — made so, as I think, by 
their indulgence, — the very word ! — by their 
indulgence in the fine arts. A man's moral sense 
must be quick, and his reason well trained, or 
else, in loving beauty, he will be courting refined 
perdition. Still, uncle, I agree with you. And 
I think there will come a time when music and 
painting, and sculpture and architecture, will be 
religious helps, — and more safely used than they 
were in Greece, and more successfully than they 
have ever been in the Catholic Church, or ever 
will be. For truth can be more beautifully ex- 
pressed than error. And then genius, especial- 
ly the highest, is religious ; and so it is more 
or less religiously darkened, unless purely Chris- 
tian. Nor are all forms of Christianity indiffer- 
ent. For the state of mind which Paul argues 
for against the Jews is exactly the mood in which 
alone genius is creative, — a soul acting out of its 
own purified state, and not abiding fearfully by 
customs and outward laws. Now when this 
Christian spirit becomes common, an artist will 
have that for his usual temper, almost, which, as 
yet, is only his genial and often very rare mood. 
O, yes ! the purely Christian spirit will be the 
inspiration of a glorious literature ; and it will 
possess the minds of sculptors, painters, archi- 
tects, and musicians, and make them priests unto 
God. 



298 EUTHANASY. 

MARHAM. 

All noblest things are religious, — not temples 
and martyrdoms only, but the best books, pic- 
tures, poetry, statues, and music. Very strongly 
this testifies the truth of religion. 

AUBIN. 

It is not in prayer only that the soul approaches 
God, for it is drawn nigher him by all the higher 
objects it turns to. If a poet will sing his noblest 
strain, it is into the ear of God he does it ; if an 
architect will build in his sublimest manner, it is 
a house for God he makes ; and if a true artist 
will do his best in music, it is God whom he must 
have in his mind to glorify, or else to mourn to. 
And every earnest movement of the mind of man 
is upwards, and to God, — making us sure of 
that Divine presence, toward which the soul is 
meant to be reaching, and in which, hereafter, 
will be its heaven. 

MARHAM. 

It must be, and it is, — yes, what you have 
now said is part of that witness which God has 
never left himself without in the world and the 
soul. And, Oliver, you have pointed it out very 
beautifully. 

AUBIN. 

And all knowledge, properly held, points to 
God. Science is in our hands like a Divine 
gift ; and, rightly thought of, it persuades us of 
a spiritual world which we are akin to. 



EUTHANASY. 299 

MARHAM. 

It ought to do, — yes, it ought to do. 

AUBIN. 

Geologically, botanically, geographically, and 
every way, the better we know the world, the 
more familiar it feels, and like a home made for 
us. This broad and various earth a home for 
us to live in ! Then we may heartily believe the 
Maker of it to be our Father Almighty. Uncle, 
your uneasiness at new knowledge, and my joy in 
it, is the difference of our two philosophies. You 
plant yourself upon certain reasons, and you say, 
11 As long as I have these to stand upon, I know 
that the eye of God must be turned upon rrie as 
his child." But some of those reasons alter a 
little with every new thought, and so you feel as 
though the foundations under you were uncertain. 
But my way of thinking is this : — as surely as I 
live, there is a God ; and my soul claims God as 
more than her Maker, as being her Father ; and 
as surely as my soul was meant to feel at all, 
God is towards me what he feels to be ; and so 
he must be, and is, the Father of spirits. God 
is truth ; and so every new truth I learn is fresh 
likeness in me to God. 

MARHAM. 

Yes, it is, and no doubt ought to be so thought 
of, notwithstanding what Solomon says about the 
sorrowful growth of knowledge. 



300 EUTHANASY. 

AUBIN. 

In science and in manufactures, new principles, 
or fresh applications of them, are from the Father 
of lights, and are meant to assure and reassure us 
of our near relationship to him. O uncle ! there 
are glad and solemn seasons in which what is 
called the light of civilization is to my feeling the 
light of God among men ; and so indeed it is. 

MARHAM. 

Our knowledge is God's giving, no doubt ; and 
our uses of it, when innocent, are according to 
his intentions. 

AUBIN. 

What is the difference between savage and 
civilized life ? It is mind. This house and all 
the articles in it are the results of thought. In 
every brick about us, there is skill ; in every 
chair and table, there is intention ; in this couch, 
there is the idea of the inventor ; and it is not 
only with colored wool that the floor is carpeted, 
but also with taste, and with the perseverance 
and attention of many hours, and many thinkers, 
— sheep-shearer, wool-comber, yarn-spinner, dy- 
er, designer, and weaver. Why does my shirt 
differ from green plants in a hemp field ; or this 
pair of shoes from a yard of ox-hide ? By the 
ingenuity in them. Why, what way of life we 
really are living is much more spiritual than we 
often think it. 




EUTHANASY. 301 

MARHAM. 

>o it is, Oliver ; so it is. 

AUBIN. 

Man might have been created with the strength 
of an elephant, and the swiftness of an antelope, 
and with clothing as strong as what the rhinoceros 
wears, and as light as the plumage of the bird of 
paradise, and as gay. In his eye there might 
have been the glance of the eagle, and the sight 
of the owl ; and so day and night would have 
been alike to him. And as in the north the skin 
of the fox is of one color in summer and another 
in winter, so the human body might have been 
made to adapt itself readily to the four seasons 
and the five zones. 

MARHAM. 

Man would have been made so if it had been 
good for him. 

AUBIN. 

It is good for him ; and he is made so, nearly. 

MARHAM. 

All the powers which you have been speaking 
of 

AUBIN. 

Are in the human hand. The hand is a won- 
derful thing ; and without it, the soul of man 
would have been always unknown, and never 
would have known herself; because she could 
not have exercised herself, could not have quick- 



302 EUTHANASY. 

ened, and struggled, and learned. She would 
not have been known of, although she still would 
have been a soul ; just as we know now that there 
is the same and as quick a spirit in the deaf and 
dumb, as in those that have all the five senses. 
What delicate touch there is in the finger-ends ! 
How well the hand is made to grasp ! The hand 
was not meant to fit into the arm at the wrist 
more plainly than it is itself fitted to a hammer 
and to a needle. When the muscles of the hand 
were made, there was thought of what work the 
hand would have to do ; and so, as I think, a 
hammer, an axe, a needle, were as much meant 
to become continuations of the hand, as the hand 
was intended to be a prolongation of the arm. 
The hand was made for tools, as much as to be 
jointed at the wrist. A carpenter's tools, a min- 
er's implements, and a steam-engine are as much 
instruments of the soul as the fingers are. And 
because they can be laid aside, their convenience 
is so much the greater ; for otherwise they would 
be oppressively many limbs. 

MARHAM. 

I am listening, Oliver, and I am wondering. 

AUBIN. 

Saw, hammer, gimlet, pincers, trowel, — the 
hand of man is all these things, for it makes them 
and uses them. In the hand of the first man, 
there might have been read, as things that would 



EUTHANASY. 303 

certainly be, — houses, furniture, forges, woollen 
clothes, shawls of silk, mastery of the horse, 
ploughs, ships, and railroads. 

MARHAM. ■ 

That is quite true, Oliver ; and so, for what 
you have remarked, we ought to believe the more 
largely in those Christian promises which sound at 
first too great for fulfilment ; because we do not 
know what our souls may admit of. 

ATJBIN. 

Yes, uncle, in our souls there are greater 
things, grander heights, and more fearful depths, 
and more glorious issues, than even pride thinks 
of; just as in the mind of Adam, and unknown to 
him, were the beginnings of the tents of the pa- 
triarchs, and the art of Tubalcain, and the life of 
Nimrod, and all the kingdoms of the world. 

MARHAM. 

From what men are over what they once were, 
we may well believe in a life of the spirit to fol- 
low this life in the flesh. 

ATJBIN. 

St. Bernard reminds his readers that men do 
not come into the world glittering with jewels or 
garnished with silks ; but that they are born naked, 
and poor, and miserable, and wretched, — blush- 
ing because they are naked, and weeping because 
they are born. It is very true, — it is mournfully 
true, says the old father ; but it is sublimely true, 



304 ETTTHANASY. 

I think. Let us remember what we are born, 
and consider how we live, and so we shall feel 
ourselves greater than we have thought, perhaps. 

MARHAM. 

Death is spoken of as going the way of all 
flesh ; but we do not live the way of other crea- 
tures ; so, in death, why should we fear going it ? 

A¥BIN. 

Wearing clothes, living in houses, working at 
trades, — all our way of life, — come of the man- 
ner in which the hand is shaped. The soul of 
man being what it is, his way of living might have 
been, and no doubt was, foreknown from the make 
of his hand. An angel might have said to the 
first human family, — " Work, — do you human 
creatures work, because you are made for suc- 
cessful work ; for by my foresight I can see rising 
afar off what you cannot see, nor I tell you of 
well, — -factories, docks, warehouses, corn-mills, 
observatories, churches, and cities." Man's 
hand was shaped for the mastery of this world, 
and this world is being mastered. Now in the 
soul there is faith, — a faculty with which for man 
to lay hold of the next world ; and so shall it not, 
— this faith that we feel, — shall it not be evi- 
dence enough for us of things not seen ? 

MAE.HAM. 

It ought to be ; and the more we know of our- 
selves, the better proof it will be felt to be. 



ETJTHANASY. 305 

AUBIN. 

Was Adam's impulse to action a chance ? 
Surely not. And was not it true and most trust- 
worthy ? Yes ; for of it have come ploughed 
fields, granaries, streets of houses, furniture, 
clothing, and outwardly all that we are of what 
we were meant to be. Now there are impulses 
in us that have a spiritual world for their object. 
Then they are to be trusted to ; for cannot we 
be sure, — do not we know, — that we are truly, 
and not deceitfully, made ? A world to come 
we can think of, and we do hope for, and we can 
work for ; then it is before us, it is intended for 
us, and it is awaiting us as certainly as Memphis, 
and Jerusalem, and Rome, and London, waited 
men's hands, to begin rising under them. The 
shape of man's hand was meant to have for its 
object and reward all this civilized life which we 
are living ; and just as truly faith has for its end 
and recompense a life of the soul, holy, happy, 
and everlasting. Nay, in spirit did not St. John 
even see for us that great city, New Jerusalem, 
coming down from God out of heaven ? And 
we, we ourselves, in our peaceful moments, do 
not we hear voices gentle and great, and some 
of them like the voices of departed friends, — 
do we not hear them saying to us, " Come up 
hither" ? 

20 



306 EUTHANASY. 



MARHAM. 

We do, we do. And the nigher we draw to 
God, the plainer we hear them. 

AUBIN. 

Only let us think what kind of a life it is that 
we are living, and then eternity is to be lived 
for with almost the same assurance that to-mor- 
row is. 






EUTHANASY. 307 



CHAPTER XXVII. 

He saw through life and death, through good and ill, 

He saw through his own soul. 
The marvel of the everlasting will, 

An open scroll, 
Before him lay. —Tennyson. 

AUBIN. 

O uncle, uncle, I do feel so weary to-day ! 

MARHAM. 

It is from the hot day, Oliver. And you have 
nothing to do. But you are so restless for action. 

AUBIN. 

But just now I loathe the word. O, I am a- 
weary, so weary ! And why must we be doing, 
doing, always doing, — ■ why ought we to be ? Man 
made for action!' — he is not. For thought and 
feeling are the great end of life. We are to act 
so that we may eat, and drink, and get ourselves 
clothed and housed. But we are not to live for 
food and houses ; but food and houses are to be 
striven for, for the sake of living ; and we are to 
live for the sake of knowledge and feeling. Ac- 
tion for the mere sake of doing is worthless, for 
there is no soul in it ; and it is even what a man 
may be the worse for. O, there is sincerity, and 



308 EUTHANASY. 

greatness, and spiritual growth, in quiet, when it 
is not indolence ! 

MARHAM. 

I cannot understand what you mean, Oliver. 
You have great aptitude for action, though you 
have not had much opportunity of showing it. 
And then you made work for yourself, and did it, 
many years. 

AUBIN. 

And so now, perhaps, I can talk usefully a little. 
For, uncle, I am persuaded that a man must have 
done many a good thing before he is fit to say one. 

MARHAM. 

Why, you make knowledge to be the end of 
action, and not action to be the proper result of 
knowledge, as the common judgment is. 

AUBIN. 

I do not say the mind gets informed by action, 
— bodily action ; but it does get earnestness and 
strength by it, and that nameless something that 
gives a man the mastership of his faculties. But 
I shall strive and work no more. I am in a little 
boat far below the city of life ; and it is impossi- 
ble for me to return to where voices are many 
and loud. I can only be quiet, and think how 
the stream of time is sweeping me fast into the 
ocean of eternity. 

MARHAM. 

But you are looking better, Oliver, though you 



EUTHANASY. 309 

are not quite so strong this hot weather. And if 
you should not get well again, it will be the will 
of God ; and, Oliver, we must submit to it. 
And I am sure you are resigned, though you may 
feel it very sad to be withdrawn from active life 
so soon. 

AUBIN. 

But, uncle, I do not. But, indeed, I never 
could get into active life. For it is not often to 
be entered without help, from such a position in 
the world as I was early reduced to. Once I 
was asked what friends I had of any mark ; I 
confessed I had none at all, and so I lost what 
would have been a fresh start for me in life. 
And then occurred to me what I had never 
thought of before, but what long ago Thomas 
Decker knew of, when he pondered, — 

Shall I contract myself to wisdom's love ? 
Then I lose riches ; and a wise man poor 
Is like a sacred book that 's never read. 
To himself he lives, and to all else seems dead. 

The disappointments, and the battle, and the fret 
of life are over with me ; and perhaps my strength 
for a walk of twenty miles is over. But the re- 
membrances of life, and the feelings that have 
been made in me by living it, — these are not 
over ; and a great happiness they are, along with 
this peace which I have now, through you, uncle. 
My spirit was not calm enough to profit thor- 



310 EUTHANASY. 

ougbly by the last six years of my life ; for they 
were often so very anxious. But now I am liv- 
ing them all over again in thought, and getting the 
wiser for them, and the more Christian, as I 
hope. For I can pray, and I can think, though 
I cannot work, — cannot stir, nor act much. 

MARHAM. 

Well, I am sorry to say that, myself, I am 
sometimes distressed at not being able to do what 
I used to do. And often I have been grieved 
for you ; I could find you means and friends 
to enter life with. But perhaps you will be strong 
enough yet to do something in the world. And 
this is such an age in the world, too. For now 
there are so many things doing and likely to be 
done, and such new prospects are opening in so- 
ciety. 

AUBIN. 

Yes, among men in yonder town, plans are be- 
ing canvassed and principles argued ; and in the 
future, there are to be seen the dim outlines of 
strange and lofty institutions. This is an age de- 
cisive of the world's future for centuries. One 
true word uttered now is mightier than books 
were no long while since. And as the world 
grows lighter with knowledge, new heights of ex- 
cellence are to be seen, and new paths upwards 
are to be found ; and fresh pinnacles of glory 
there are for men to discover, and to make them- 



EUTHANASY. 311 

selves famous by. This is true, uncle. But I 
am not the man I was a year ago ; for I have 
other hopes, and other fears, and another view of 
life, than what I had then. Now the spiritual 
world is almost more real to me than this bodily 
life. The infinite and the eternal are become 
almost my element, and in it this round earth rolls 
like a phantom. And it would be nothing but a 
phantom, and the men and women on it would be 
merely spectres, were it not for God, who is in 
all things, and is the life and the reality of them. 

MARHAM. 

And the worth, and the only true happiness of 
them. 

AUBIN. 

What labor and haste there are in yonder 
town ! Action, action, action ! The place is 
full of it. And it is all for daily bread and other 
temporary things, though there is an eternal pur- 
pose which gets answered in it. Money is what 
the merchant and the mechanic think of as the 
end of their labor ; but there is a further end 
which God designs in it, and which is effected on 
the men themselves. 

MARHAM. 

The strength of mind, the decision, the mas- 
tery of the faculties, which you spoke of just now ? 

AUBIN. 

Yes, uncle. And now for what it is that com- 



312 ETJTHANASY. 

forts me. From all activity I am not disabled ; 
and not at all am I invalided from the divine end 
of exertion, though I am from the worldly pur- 
pose of it. 

MARHAM. 

It is plain, and yet it never occurred to me, — 
this twofold use of labor. 

AUBIN. 

This end beyond an end, — this abiding pur- 
pose achieved in a temporary way. There is the 
likeness of it in a plant, which seems to blossom 
only for the sake of beauty, while inside the flow- 
er are forming the seeds of next year's plants. 
And in many things the way of Providence is 
like this. Man and woman love one another ; 
and their love is their world ; it is all in all to 
them ; and nothing further do they think of ; but 
out of their affection is ordained the birth of chil- 
dren. And when a child is born, there is in the 
mind of the parents a feeling for it, like what the 
dove has for its young. But now this fondness 
proves painful, unless the child grows towards the 
excellence which its father and mother worship ; 
and so the child's education is certain. Then 
the child grows a man, and a creature of many 
wants, which wants the man tries to satisfy ; 
in the trial his mind gets exercised ; and so, be- 
sides comfort, he gets what he did not attempt, — 
mental strength, aptitude, knowledge. 



EUTHANASY. 313 

MARHAM. 

What you have been saying is so only with us 
human creatures ; and our growth is so peculiar, 
it is so much that of the spirit, and so long, that 
it is plain ours is not so much life in itself as a 
getting ready to live. 

AUBIN. 

Yonder town was founded by persons who 
wanted shelter for their bodies ; but it is dwelt in 
by men with Bibles, — by living souls. Genius 
is loving and longs to be loved ; it thirsts to be 
understood by men and women, and youth, and 
old age ; therefore, in this craving for sympathy, 
there is security that genius will be communica- 
tive, and so the world be the wiser and the more 
hopeful for it. — Well, and now men are social 
by nature, and they will and must live together. 
But this they cannot do, not even trade together, 
without honesty and mutual trust. And so even 
in the necessities of trade, justice and judgment 
are rooted, — the same principles which, when 
looked at, are seen to rise heavenwards, and to 
be the foundations of God's throne. 

MARHAM. 

And so in life, — the business and the pleasures 
of it, — there is often a larger meaning than we 
think of. And we even learn it without knowing. 

AUBIN. 

Often and often God makes use of us as his 



314 EUTHANASY. 

servants without our knowledge. And we find 
ourselves richly repaid, without our being able to 
tell how. And there are some treasures laid up 
in heaven in our names, that we have never even 
thought of. O, it will only be by what grandeur 
will come of it, that we shall know rightly what 
this life has been with us. 

MARHAM. 

It will be so, — it will be so ; and so we ought 
to be the more earnest in every virtue, as we do 
not know what great reward it may not lead up to. 

AUBIN. 

Nor what higher virtue it may not be the begin- 
ning of. For us Christians, it is a law to forgive 
our enemies unto seventy times seven offences. 
But what is meant for us is that charity which 
bears, hopes, and endures all things. And so a 
Christian begins forgiveness as his duty, but goes 
on with it as his happy nature . — There are many 
Christian things which must be done or held in 
faith at first ; but we do not do nor believe them 
long, before knowing of ourselves that they are 
right. And then out of that experience our faith 
grows stronger, and reaches higher still for us. 
At first, a child loves his father's face, then his 
voice, then his talk, then wisdom because his 
father loves it, then wisdom for its own bright 
sake, and then, better still, he loves it for the sake 
of God. We human creatures begin with liking 




EUTHANASY. 315 

one another for company, then for playing to- 
gether, then, perhaps, for being of service to one 
another, then for our agreeing in temper ; and then 
we love one another according to what manner of 
spirit we are of, — we love one another's souls ; 
and then at last we love the world to come, for 
the noble dwellers in it. 

MARHAM. 

Like a bud opening into blossom, — and beau- 
tiful and natural as that, — is the way in which this 
bodily manner of existence grows into spiritual life. 

ATJBIN. 

Always when a man lives a good life in his 
house, his business, and his dwelling-place, he 
gets to feel that there is growing in him a spirit 
better than his life's righteousness has been, and 
even higher than this world well allows his show- 
ing. It is his fitness for the next life, and it is 
seen by his friends better than it is felt by him- 
self ; and so to all who knew him he is a witness 
of the coming of the kingdom of heaven. 

ATJBIN. 

Yes, rightly thought of, every good thing in us 
is evidence of our being heirs of God. And if 
we do love God, every change that comes over 
our souls is felt like an earnest of the kingdom 
that is promised us. 

AUBIN. 

The growth of the willing soul, — how won- 



316 EUTHANAST. 

drously it goes on ! There is God in it. And, 
O ! it is to be trusted in infinitely. Last night I 
lay awake, and what we have now been talking 
about occurred to me ; and in the first warmth of 
the thought, I felt myself, O, so blessedly the 
care of Providence, and so sure of glory to be 
reached ! I felt as an angel may when newly 
made, and quickening in the smile of the Al- 
mighty, and while he is fast growing up the de- 
grees of intelligence, to where there is not dark- 
ness enough for a doubt to be in. 



EUTHANASY. 317 



CHAPTER XXVIII. 

For us the winds do blow, 
The earth doth rest, heaven move, and fountains flow. 
Nothing we see but means our good, 
As our delight, or as our treasure : 
The whole is either our cupboard of food, 
Or cabinet of pleasure. 

The stars have us to bed ; 
Night draws the curtain, which the sun withdraws ; 
Music and light attend our head. — George Herbert. 



MARHAM. 

What are you thinking of, Oliver ? Your 
cheeks are so glowing, and your eyes so bright, 
that I am afraid you are too much excited with 
your thoughts. 

AUBIN. 

I am trying to recollect something of Cole- 
ridge's, but I cannot. But I know the passage 
begins with saying, that every rank of creatures, 
as it ascends in the scale of creation, leaves 
death behind it or under it, and is itself a mute 
prophecy of the rank next above it. Sometimes 
water freezes into a resemblance of ferns and 
leaves, and earth crystallizes into spurs, like plants 
and trees. And then, among trees and flowers, 
there is what foretokens the animal world in the 



318 EUTHANASY. 

sensitive plant, and in the contractile power of 
such river-plants as lengthen or shorten the stalk 
with the rise and fall of the water, and in the cir- 
cumstance of there being male and female trees. 
I think it was Goethe who said that the skeletons 
of many marine creatures clearly show, that, while 
making them, nature was plainly intending a high- 
er race of land-animals. And then, among these 
creatures of the earth, there were things to fore- 
show what the better nature of man was to be ; 
for the trunk of the elephant is a rude hand ; and 
the migratory instinct of the swallow is like strong 
reason ; and the faithfulness of the dove is not 
unlike the affection of man and wife ; and what the 
beavers make to lodge in is an attempt at a home. 

MARHAM. 

Very ingenious. Does Coleridge say that ? 

AUBIN. 

No, uncle. But now I do remember a part of 
what I wanted ; and it is the best thing he ever 
wrote, and what ought to be laid up in cedar, as 
his nephew thinks. " Let us carry ourselves 
back in spirit to the mysterious week, — the teem- 
ing work-days of the Creator, — as they rose in 
vision before the eye of the inspired historian of 
the generation of the heavens and earth, in the 
day that the Lord God made the earth and the 
heavens. And who that had watched their ways 
with an understanding heart could, as the vision 



EUTHANASY. 319 

evolving still advanced towards him, contem- 
plate the filial and loyal bee ; the home-building, 
wedded, and divorceless swallow ; and above all, 
the manifoldly intelligent ant-tribes, with their 
commonwealth and confederacies, their warriors 
and miners, the husbandfolk, and the virgin sis- 
ters, with the holy instincts of maternal love de- 
tached and in selfless purity, and not say to him- 
self, — Behold the shadow of approaching hu- 
manity, the sun rising from behind in the kindling 
morn of creation." Now that is very beautiful, 
is not it ? It makes me feel as the angels may 
have done when they saw the young world round- 
ing into beauty, and growing green and peopled, 
as they looked at it from time to time. It is as 
though I had been one of the witnesses of the 
creation ; and I am kindred to those sons of God 
who did see it, as I know by my being able to 
feel this way. 

MARHAM. 

Know it so, Oliver ! how ? Though it is 
pleasant to think on the stages in creation, im- 
proving one on another, till the last, but little 
lower than that of the angels. 

ATTBIN. 

How the world was once without form and 
void ; then how it w T as shaped by the rush of 
water round it, and the bursting of fire from with- 
in it ; then how its bleak surface grew green with 



320 ET7THANASY. 

vegetation ; then how there sprung up vast trees ; 
and then, in the forests, how vast creatures began 
to move, and when their creeping race had died 
out, how a better and still a better kind of animals 
appeared, till at last man was made in the image 
of the Highest, — of God 

MARHAM. 

With the earth given him to subdue, and every 
thing in it to use. And so it was for us the earth 
was made, though at first it was only the pasture 
of cattle and the hunting-field of the lion. There 
was progress in the creation from day to day, or 
rather in one order of creatures over the next 
order. And so we were the last, because we 
were to be the highest. 

ATJBIN. 

According to an ascending scale of worth in 
the creation. It is this delights the soul. First 
there was made the kingdom of dead minerals, 
then that of growing plants, then that of active 
creatures, then that of reasoning activity ; and 
now there are among us the beginnings of a new 
creation in Christ Jesus. It is because of her 
sympathy with it, because of her own progressive 
character, that my soul thrills to this. And just 
now I felt as though I saw age beyond age, and 
height above height, and glory beyond glory, for 
my soul to pass into. 



EUTHANASY. 321 

MARHAM. 

I believe in the soul's infinite progress, though 
I do not think it is to be expected from the man- 
ner in which the world grew out of a void into 
what it now is. Because, if any thing at all is to 
be inferred from that, it would be, I think, the 
possibility, some time, of some creatures being 
made superior to ourselves. 

AUBIN. 

O, no ! but the certainty of social progress, 
and therefore of individual improvement, and that 
for ever, probably. It would be as you say, if 
man differed from the brutes only as they do from 
trees, and as trees do from marble and iron. For 
there is nothing in a mineral, which, at its best, 
could ever become a plant, and vegetable or- 
ganization perfected to the utmost would never 
make an animal, and the instincts of all animals 
in one would not amount to reason. But reason 
itself is not to be spoken of so, for there is no 
high place to which it is not competent ; and 
while above us men there are angels and archan- 
gels, the difference between them and us is not in 
nature, but in degree, in what is possible to be 
outgrown. Yes ! there was progress in the geo- 
logical ages, and it was from one to a higher kind 
of existence ; and now that progressiveness is in 
the soul of man, and may be in it infinitely ; for, 
by the very nature of the spirit, there is no prin- 
21 



322 EUTHANASY. 

cipality nor power up to the height of which it 
may not grow ; and there is no great form, into 
the fulness of which it may not spread ; and 
there is no strength, to the possession of which it 
may not get. By the image of God upon me, I 
am kindred to the whole family of God ; not only 
to poets, and saints, and prophets, but to angels, 
and to the cherubim and seraphim, and to the 
dwellers in the heaven of heavens. Since the 
beginning, progression has been the law of the 
world. Yes, and to me the recognition of this 
truth feels like a troubled joy, and it turns with- 
in me to a prophecy of my own infinite des- 
tiny. 

MARHAM. 

God make us and keep us worthy of it ! The 
Lord have us in his sight always ! 

AUBIN. 

My being in the eye of God persuades me of 
my immortality. For, I think, there cannot but 
be an everlastingness in every purpose of an eter- 
nal God. My nature will never die out ; I will 
not fear it will ; for no action of God's ever quite 
spends itself, and very probably nothing of his 
creating will ever quite perish. 

MARHAM. 

O, Oliver ! you forget it is written expressly, 
that this earth will be dissolved, and the firmament 
above it. 



EUTHANASY. 323 

AUBIN. 

But God is in the earth and will outlive it ; 
and no doubt all that is divine in creation is im- 
mortal. The earth will burn up, and the heavens 
be on fire, and there will be a great void again ; 
and so, perhaps, space be made for the new heav- 
ens and the new earth. But in us there will sur- 
vive a something of the former heavens and the 
earth that once was ; for always there will be in 
us feelings inspired by them. And our souls will 
be sublime with the sublimity of perished moun- 
tains ; and they will be pure with the purity with 
which morning used to blush in the east ; and 
they will be beautiful with the beauty with which 
evening lingered in the west ; and they will be 
lovely with the loveliness of moonlight among the 
trees ; and they will be peaceful with the peace 
into which, on summer evenings, nature often 
hushed herself. 

MARHAM. 

You are not talking too much, Oliver, are you ? 
Do not tire yourself ; but do go on. 

AUBIN. 

And the most perishable objects of nature be- 
come immortal by having been ways or points 
through which man and God have touched, in 
spirit ; for spirit immortalizes all things. Ani- 
mals were created, the later their race, the bet- 
ter, till at last man was made ; and now human 



324 EUTHANASY. 

ages are improvements, one on another. But 
now also, through man, other animals live to more 
spiritual purpose ; for man sees, and uses, and 
thinks of them. And as Bailey says, — 

All animals are living hieroglyphs. 

The dashing dog, and stealthy-stepping cat, 

Hawk, bull, and all that breathe, mean something more 

To the true eye than their shapes show ; for all 

Were made in love, and made to be beloved. 

The succession of the five vegetable creations 
was that of superiority ; and now the last is itself 
progressive, by its being of more and more use. 
A tree ripens and drops fruit, and so perhaps is 
the support of some animal that comes under its 
boughs ; but it is of better use still, when the 
fruits of it are gathered by man ; but when the 
remembrance of the tree is to live in an immortal 
soul, it is become another thing than what used 
to grow and rot in an unpeopled world. There 
was a daisy ploughed up in a field at Ellisdale ; 
but through Burns's address to it, it lives on and 
will flourish for ever, — 

Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower. 

Dead is it ? The earthiness of it is ; but not 
what was the daisy itself, nor even what likeness 
of his own fate the poet saw in its being ploughed 
up: — 

Such fate to suffering worth is given, 
Who long with wants and woes has striven, 



EUTHANASY. 325 

By human pride or cunning driven 

To misery's brink, 

Till, wrenched of every stay but Heaven, 
He, ruined, sink! 

And there is one sweet brier that will live as long 
as the English language, for through the love of 
Walter Savage Landor it has been spiritualized, 
and so become an everlasting. 

My brier, that smelledst sweet 
When gentle spring's first heat 
Ran through thy quiet veins. 

And, O ! in this manner, many are the flowers 
and trees that live a higher life than can be touch- 
ed by frost or heat. And if I never were to see 
a tree again, I could always feel the stillness and 
the awe and the depth of an American forest ; 
for there is a hymn of Bryant's, the saying of 
which brings great trees about me, and thick 
branches over my head, and a feeling of being 
alone with God. The woods may disappear, but 
the spirit of them never will now ; for it has been 
felt by a poet, and we can feel for ever what he 
felt, — how 

the sacred influences 
That from the stilly twilight of the place, 
And from the gray old trunks, that, high in heaven, 
Mingled their mossy boughs, and from the sound 
Of the invisible breath that swayed at once 
All their green tops, stole over him, and bowed 
His spirit with the thought of boundless Power 
And inaccessible Majesty. 



326 EUTHANASY. 

MAE.HAM. 

O, but that is sublime ! It is what might have 
been felt in Lebanon, when it was holier than it 
is now. 

AUBIN. 

And holier and sublimer all objects grow, with 
the growing holiness of the beholders. Rivers 
there are, the Yarrow, the Otter, the Severn, and 
others, that make unearthly music in their rip- 
plings, since they have been sung of by Words- 
worth, and Coleridge, and Milton. And there 
are birds that died long ago, and yet that are liv- 
ing on still, — the cuckoo of Logan's hearing, the 
stormy petrel and the horned owl of Barry Corn- 
wall's poems, and the skylark which the Ettrick 
Shepherd heard singing, — 

0, my love is bonny, and young, and chaste, 
As sweetly she sits in her mossy nest ! 

Ay, and to the last of life, there is that in nature 
which there are no words for, but which is to be 
felt ; and in wild-flowers, there is what the spirit 
owns and is glad in. 

Once I welcome you more, in life's passionless stage, 
With the visions of youth to revisit my age, 

And I wish you to grow on my tomb. 

So felt Campbell ; and so I feel, though I am 
not old ; yes, I am ; for age is not years, but ex- 
perience and nearness to death. O, I had for- 
gotten Shelley's poem on the Sensitive Plant ! 



EUTHANASY. 327 

It is a wonderful poem. In the beginning of it 
there are flowers, — a garden full of them, that 
will live for ever. I have now blossoms in my 
eye, but they will be withered to-morrow ; but 
in my mind's eye, I have flowers that Shelley 
has shown me, and that are unfading. And why 
are they ? Because some little the meaning of 
them — what is, as it were, the soul of them — 
has been shown to my soul. There is the lily, 
and there is the hyacinth, 

And the rose, like a nymph to the hath addrest, 
Which unveiled the depth of her glowing breast, 
Till, fold after fold, to the fainting air 
The soul of her beauty and love lay bare. 

But O the last part of the poem ! It is autumn 
to read it. All through the verses, one feels and 
breathes September, — yellow, and moist, and 
decaying, and thoughtful ; yes, and even the air 
of an autumn day is to be felt, — the moisture of 
it on the skin, but also and for ever the spirit of 
it in the mind. And so through the immortality 
of man there is an everlasting purpose even in na- 
ture. Forests may vanish, but the awfulness of 
their depths will be in my spirit for ever ; the sea 
may be dried up from the earth, but never out of 
my memory ; and to all eternity there will be in 
me what has come of the storms I have heard, 
and the midnights I have felt, and the brook-sides 
I have lain upon. But, uncle 



328 EUTHANASY. 

MARHAM. 

I will not interrupt you, Oliver. I was only 
going to refer to what St. Paul says about all 
things being discernible by the spiritual man. 

AUBIN. 

Yes, by the spirit there is a spirit discernible 
in all things ; and if I am spiritual, then the world 
is a revelation of God to me ; and there is a 
spirit looks in upon my spirit from out of the sky, 
and the earth, and the sea, from out of the sun 
and the moon, and from out of the rose. It is 
for the sake of what we men feel in nature, and 
from it, that this earth has been made. And I 
have no doubt that there are beings purer than 
we, who would feel this world round them like a 
Divine presence, and who would, as it were, see 
the face of God in every direction they could 
look ; so wise and beautiful and good all things 
are really, and so expressively so. Sometimes, 
after I have been praying, a landscape has seem- 
ed to me something so unspeakable, and what I 
have yearned towards, as though I were being 
drawn into the bosom of the Father. This re- 
ligiousness of nature, — how easily and touchingly 
does Jesus bring it out ! We are with him in 
Galilee, and we are anxious about ourselves ; so 
the Master points to the tall, golden flowers about, 
and says to us, "Consider the lilies, how they 
grow ; they toil not, neither do they spin : and 



EUTHANASY. 329 

yet I say unto you, that even Solomon in all his 
glory was not arrayed like one of these. Where- 
fore, if God so clothe the grass of the field, which 
to-day is, and to-morrow is cast into the oven, 
shall he not much more clothe you, O ye of little 
faith ? " There they fly, a cloud of birds ; and 
not one of them shall fall to the ground without 
our Father, — not one sparrow shall. And we, 
— we are of infinitely more value than many such. 
Why, then, are we so fearful, as though there were 
no one to care for us, — as though God did not. 
Hark ! again the Master speaks ; and we look 
up, as he points, and he says, " Behold the fowls 
of the air, for they sow not, neither do they reap, 
nor gather into barns ; yet your Heavenly Father 
feedeth them. Are ye not, much better than 
they ? " Behold the fowls of the air ! Is not it 
as though they were in the air there still ? Is not 
it as though they had outlived eighteen hundred 
years ? And so they have, in a sense. For 
through Christ's looking at them, they became 
Christian thoughts ; and they have grown eternal, 
through his having felt what a lesson of Provi- 
dence they were. Spirit as they were at first ; 
how all things tend to become spiritual ! 

MARHAM. 

You mean, Oliver, do not you, that 

AUBIN. 

This earth was a Divine idea before it was a 



330 EUTHANASY. 

globe ; and before becoming earthly shapes, 
woods and flowers, hills and rivers and oceans, 
were thoughts in the mind of God ; and the laws 
of the seasons were intentions in it ; and that 
goodness which God saw in all things on his 
making them was what had been a feeling within 
himself, first of all. Before being made, all 
things that we see were Divine thoughts ; and 
now they are thoughts in our minds, and will be 
for ever, though as objects they will themselves 
perish. In this manner does God give himself to 
us, — impart knowledge to us, and inspire us 
with feeling. 

MAKHAM. 

Your ideas are new to me, Oliver ; but I like 
them very much. They make the world feel 
what I cannot express. 

AUBIN. 

Like the bosom of a mother, whose spirit we 
have grown into, and in whose arms we can die 
cheerfully and full of hope. 

MARHAM. 

So God grant we may. 

AUBIN. 

The world God cannot have made in vain, nor 
any parts of it, neither clouds, mountains, seas, 
nor flowers. It is as a book for us men to read 
in, that nature is not in vain. 



EUTHANASY. 331 

MARHAM. 

You mean that God would not have made the 
world, but for the human race to live in. 

AUBIN. 

Yes, I think so, uncle ; and I mean, that, as 
the world itself is not eternal, therefore we our- 
selves must be. The Infinite must have an in- 
finite end in what he does. And in the making 
of this world, we human beings are the infinity. 
It is our souls which are the everlastingness of 
God's purpose in this earth. And so we must 
be, — we are, immortal. 



332 ET7THANASY. 



CHAPTER XXIX. 

Then woke 
Stirrings of deep Divinity within, 
And, like the Bickerings of a smouldering flame, 
Yearnings of a hereafter. Thou it was, 
"When the world's din and passion's voice was still, 
Calling thy wanderer home. — "Williams. 

AUBIN. 

Shall I shut the window, uncle ? 

MAK.HAM. 

Not for me, Oliver ; for it is quite warm this 
afternoon, though the heat of the season is over 
now, I think. 

AUBIN. 

On the hedges, what fresh leaves come out are 
pale and hardly green. And as you stand under 
the elms, the inner leaves are turned yellow. 
And see in the air, and hanging among the trees, 
there is that blue mist that is so peculiar to the 
latter weeks of August. How still it is ! Even 
on the poplar, the leaves hang without one stir- 
ring. There is not the least wind. It is as 
though every thing in nature were hushed and still, 
to see summer and autumn meet, and part again 
almost as soon as met. There is this meeting of 
the seasons at every vine, and under every apple, 



EUTHANASY. 333 

and peach, and plum tree. And summer looks at 
the fruits with her large, glowing eyes, and says, 
" All these are my ripening " ; and then autumn 
claps her hands and cries, " But my gathering ! 
they are for me to gather." And for a few days 
they dwell in the woods together. At first, au- 
tumn has only one or two yellow trees to sit in ; 
but every day she gets more and more, till, at last, 
summer has only an oak-tree left her for a throne. 
Then comes a misty morning, and the oak is not 
green any longer ; and summer is quite gone, and 
the whole world is autumn's. And she, — as fast 
as she gets, she loses it ; and scarcely is summer 
vanished, before autumn is gone too. 

MARHAM. 

And such is life, — an appearance for a little 
time, and hardly for that, it is so vanishing. 

AUBIN. 

Promise, — promises from day to day, — a rep- 
etition of promises ; this is what life feels to me. 
It is going, - — the summer is. O the woods and 
the hill-sides, the meadows and the gardens, 
the valley with the river in it, summer morning 
with its long shadows in the moist grass, and 
summer evening going away in the west, calm 
and sublime, like the last words of a blessing ! — 
O, in all these things, the beauty there has 
been, — what has it been, and what is it now ? 
It is God ; and so it is what my soul will be 



334 EUTHANASY. 

living in for ever, very soon. As I sat here and 
looked at this beautiful scene, — and yet it was 
rather as though it were looking into me, than I 
at it, — there was a persuasion in me which said, 
" This, this wast thou made for." And now I 
know something of how a soul may gaze upon 
God, and think of nothing else, and want nothing 
more for ages ; because the reflection of the 
face of God may be, in the depths of the soul, a 
joy everlasting ; and will be, for all other delights 
will but make God the dearer, and all other 
knowledge will but clear our spirits to know him 
the better. 

MARHAM. 

It is a great pleasure, Oliver, to listen to your 
anticipations of the future life ; but I cannot quite 
feel as you do, for hope is not certainty. Though 
sometimes, while hearing you talk, I could forget 
that there are such things as hell and reprobation. 

AUBIN. 

And so could become a perfect Christian. 
Do you wonder at me, uncle ? Well, I do be- 
lieve there is a hell ; but I am not frightened at 
its existence, for it is not outside and beyond the 
dominions of God. Even hell is not so utterly 
unblest as not to be known to God. Painful is 
it ? So is this earth very often ; and yet there 
has grown in me here such faith as that, to my 
eyes, hell itself would not be without a look of 



EUTHANASY. 

beauty, if the Divine hand pointed me into it. — 
to go into it. 

MARHAM. 

There is a perfect love which casts out fear ; 
that is certain ; for so St. 

AUBIN. 

And certain it is, that we might and ought to 
feel it, as well as St. Paul. Apostle was he ? 
So he was, and chief of sinners once. Religion 
is not hopeful enough, and I do not know that it 
ever has been in Protestant times ; presumptuous 
it has been too often, but very seldom hopeful. 
And yet Christians are saved by hope, as St. 
Paul says. Yes, hope is light, and strength, and 
peace, and virtue, and salvation. And let a soul 
be Christian, be a new creature in Christ, and 
then it can get for itself high, grand evidence out 
of hope. A life to come we hope for, and so we 
shall see it. 

MARHAM. 

I trust so. 

AUBIN. 

I could be sure so, if it were only because I 
can hope it. 

MARHAM. 

Sure of a thing because you hope it ! 

AUBIN. 

Yes, uncle, though you smile at the notion. 
For how have we come by hope ? Have angels 



336 EUTHANASY. 

visited us all, one by one, and endowed us with 
the feeling ? Or were we despairers once, and 
did we through some magic get ourselves made 
hopeful ? Has hopefulness come of any forbidden 
tree that we have eaten of ? No, no ! It is our 
nature. And through making us hope for immor- 
tality, God has made us a promise of it. 

MARHAM. 

But it is not to be thought that all things will 
be ours, because we hope them. 

AUBIN. 

No, not all things, and not many things ; and 
therefore certainly that one. I might hope that 
Venus might be the first world for me to live in 
after death ; I might hope for some one particular 
star to be my throne ; and in such things as those, 
hope would not even be expectation, and still less 
would it be certainty. When we trust in the fu- 
ture, what hopefulness is in us is the inspiration of 
God ; but what particular objects we wish are 
fixed on, perhaps, by our self-will. 

MARHAM. 

That is a wise distinction, Oliver. 

AUBIN. 

Hope is an instinct of there being infinite good 
in our destiny ; now, as that good is not earthly, 
it must be heavenly ; and so, if faith is the evi- 
dence of things not seen, hope is the certainty of 
them. 



EUTHANASY. 337 

MARHAM. 

As being an inspiration and promise of God in 
us, you mean. 

AUBIN. 

Yes. For promise of God to us it is. And 
so I think that, in life, not to be cheerful is to 
blaspheme against God. 

MARHAM. 

Hope is more of a virtue than is often thought, 
and it is perhaps only not the greatest ; for St. 
Paul counts hope along with faith and love. 

AUBIN. 

There are many evils which are more than half 
cured by hope. Hope brings good things about 
us, not so as to be handled, but so as to be 
owned and rejoiced in. Hope prophesies to us. 
Hope makes us free of the universe. I am a 
pilgrim, and life is what I have to travel over ; 
and, O ! I have many dangers and many wants ; 
but hope is my all in all, nearly. Hope is light, 
and courage, and a staff; and when I sit down, it 
is a friend to talk with ; and when I suffer, it is an 
angel to stand by and strengthen me ; and when I 
have wandered away in sin, and repented and re- 
turned to the right path, then from hope I get my 
peace of mind again, and newness of virtue. 

MARHAM. 

Hope renews you in virtue, do you say ? 

22 



EUTHANASY. 
AUBIN. 

Yes, because hoping for goodness is all but 
getting it. 

MARHAM. 

So it is. 

AUBIN. 

And then the longing of the soul would be 
long, long misery, but for hope. O, how my 
soul used to yearn after I could not tell what ! 
Strange feeling it was ! Sorrow, joy, love, wor- 
ship, — it was all these, — an infinite longing. It 
was what would have felt wealth like poverty, and 
what no sceptre would have pleased, — a longing, 
an infinite longing, to which the whole world felt 
little and nothing. I used to think it was discon- 
tentment, and yet I could not tell how it could be. 
But now I know it was not. 

MARHAM. 

It is the way youth often feels. 

AUBIN. 

And rightly ; for that feeling is no discontent, 
but it is the soul prophesying to herself her great- 
ness that is to be. 

MARHAM. 

But almost always this feeling dies away. 

AUBIN. 

Die away it does not, though too commonly it 
is quenched ; but it is not the less natural for that, 
nor the less meaning. For if this sublime yearn- 



EUTHANASY. 339 

ing of the spirit is often quenched, so is con- 
science, so is love, and so is reverence. 

MARHAM. 

And quite as often, perhaps ; for of these 
affections, there is in multitudes a much greater 
seeming than life. O, but it is sad to think how 
many souls I have known grow torpid ! In youth, 
they were loving, and thoughtful, and devout. 
Every great and beautiful truth was welcome to 
them, and their souls 

AUBIN. 

Were like homes of the Holy Spirit, perhaps ? 

MARHAM. 

Almost as open, and clean, and cheerful, as 
though they were. But now they are the lurking- 
places of cunning, and the dwelling-places of 
selfishness and pride. O, how the soul can allow 
herself to be darkened and polluted ! It comes 
of her false service. For there is the world 
about her, and she worships some things in it with 
powers that ought only to have God for their 
object. 

AUBIN. 

Yes, and this youthful yearning of the spirit is 
an earnestness, which often the man uses for self- 
ish purposes. And so through this feeling, that 
ought to have made him free of the world, he 
becomes its slave. This yearning in him he 
thinks to gratify with money, or luxury, or fame ; 



340 EUTHANASY. 

but he cannot. More, more, — it wants more ; 
it wants more than the whole world. And so, 
with all his gains, the man but gets the more cov- 
etous, and not the more contented. For this 
craving of his soul has in it a something infinite, 
and is not for the ownership of the earth at all, 
but for the beauty of it, and what there is of God 
in it. 

MARHAM. 

I think your explanation of the feeling is right ; 
but why does it rise in youth first, for in childhood 
it is not felt ? 

ATTBIN. 

Because it is not till childhood is over, that 
the soul is a soul, — grown, I mean, into any 
knowledge of itself or its wants. O, I remem- 
ber, at first, what a mystery this infinite want in 
me was ! Sublime, and sad, and loving, — it was 
so strange ! It tortured me, because I thought it 
was a fault ; but now it does not, for I know its 
meaning. It is my soul, that is come of age, 
making her claim upon the infinite in her right as 
a child of God. 

MARHAM. 

Hark ! Yes, it is the clock striking. 

ATTBIN. 

From over every town, east to west, the 
clocks are striking the hour. One, two, three, 
four, five, six ! And the Christian meaning of 



EUTHANASY. 341 

the sound is, " Thus far on through Time." 
And the hopeful thought it makes in us is, " And 
so much nigher to Eternity and Heaven." 

MARHAM. 

So we will hope. 

AUBIN. 

And out of pure hearts, confidence in the future 
cannot be too great. Because, what is hope ? 
It is what is most worthy of belief, by its very 
nature. For in hoping rightly, all that is best in 
us yearns together for the infinite, — love and 
reverence, and conscience, and the feeling of the 
beautiful. 



342 euthanasy. 



CHAPTER XXX. 



The wave that dances to the breast 

Of earth can ne'er be staved; 
The star that glitters in the crest 

Of morning needs must fade. 

But there shall flow another tide, 

So let me hope, and far 
Over the outstretched waters wide 

Shall shine another star. 

In every change of man's estate 

Are lights and guides allowed ; 
The fiery pillar will not wait. 

But. parting, sends the cloud. 

Nor mourn I the less manly part 

Of life to leave behind ; 
My loss is but the lighter heart. 

My gain, the graver mind. — Henry Taylor. 



AUBIN. 

Death, — the Greeks were afraid of the very 
word ; they would not use it if they could help 
it ; nor would the Romans, though less sensitive. 
Aud we, — we Christians speak it like an un- 
natural word. And yet the thing itself, when it 
happens, will be quite a matter of course ; and 
for us Christians, there will be no sting in it ; and 
all the bitterness of it will be found to have been 
drunk by us long ago. For our life is an act of 
dying ; and we die just as fast as we live. The 



EUTHANASY. 343 

pleasures of boyhood, holidays and half-holidays, 
climbing trees, rolling down green hill-sides, look- 
ing for birdsnests, playing with snow, chasing one 
another, especially in the twilight, sporting in the 
water, and swimming, — all this I have been dead 
to long, long. Many a purpose of station and 
fame, that was once life of my life, I am dead to. 
Every month I die to some old object, or hope, 
or delight ; and every midnight do I die to a yes- 
terday. 

MARHAM. 

Ay, in the midst of life we are in death ; we 
are ; and it is most true. 

AUBIN. 

But not most melancholy, nor as much so as 
your tone, uncle. For if life is so very like 
death, then death cannot be so very unlike life. 

MARHAM. 

What is that ? how is that ? 

AUBIN. 

It is quite a triumph, is not it? — detecting 
the nothingness of death, this way. I will show 
you how it is. Our daily death 

MARHAM. 

Why, Oliver, what an expression, — our daily 
death ! But it is a true one. And if we lived 
in the feeling of it, we should not be afraid of 
death long. If only men did die daily, then they 
would not die at all. But this they will not do. 



344 EUTHANASY. 

But yet, whether we think it or not, we become 
dead to many and many an object. This is our 
mortality. 

ATJBIN. 

And no such very sad thing. You cannot leap 
over gates, and across ditches, and up to the 
boughs of trees, as you used to do. It is no time 
with you now to undress yourself on the bank of 
a river and jump into it, careless about the depth ; 
you cannot run a mile in seven minutes 

MARHAM. 

No, I am sure I cannot. 

ATJBIN. 

Well, but do you want to do it, or any of those 
other things ? No, you do not, — no more than 
you covet a condor's wings, or Nero's old pal- 
ace, or Samson's strength, or any other impos- 
sibility. Then where is the grief, or any reason 
for it ? Grievous it would be, very, if there were 
an impulse in you to run eight miles an hour, and 
you could not achieve four ; or if, at sight of 
a gate, you always wished to leap over it and 
could not. But as you do not wish any of these 
boyish things, inability to do them is nothing to 
lament. The sorrow, if there is any, is in your 
having grown not to care about what were the 
pleasures of your childhood, and some of your 
youthful objects. Now there are those to whom 
boyish sports are a delight at fifty years of age, — 



EUTHANASY. 345 

men who are happy for hours together in blowing 
soap-bubbles, and chasing butterflies. But then 
who are they ? 

MAK.HAM. 

Poor idiots, certainly. But there are things of 
quite another class from what you have mention- 
ed, which you and I have become uninterested in. 

AUBIN. 

Have grown indifferent to. And grown into 
this indifference we have, and not decayed into 
it. Many childish delights, and many youthful 
joys, a man has no pleasure in ; for he has grown 
thoughtful, and so in thoughtless things he is no 
longer pleased. And is this, then, melancholy ? 
No, uncle, no ! I am free of the hall where the 
Muses live. They talk to me divinely about 
the arts and sciences, about what the ages were 
that are past, and about what the ages to come 
will be like. One Muse thrills me with her 
voice, in singing, and then one of her sisters en- 
trances me with music, and from time to time 
they give me nectar to drink. Mortal as I am, 
I drink the drink of immortals. This is what 
I do, and often. So that it is no decay of 
nature, when I am out in the fields, if I am not 
eager after wild fruits, like a boy. Childish 
games have no interest for us now ; but it is be- 
cause of our interest in life, — the great game of 
the passions. Many things I do not feel about 



346 EUTHANASF. 

as I did at fifteen ; but it is because since then I 
have thought the same things as John Milton, and 
sat under a tree with Plato and his friends, and 
heard them discourse together. True, the earth 
is not to me what it was. It is no broad play- 
ground now ; but it is something better still, for 
it feels under my feet like the floor of a temple 
not made with hands. Fellow-creatures met by 
chance I cannot now be merry with for an hour, 
and then miss for ever without caring ; but this 
is because between me and God the fleshly veil 
is worn so thin that light shines through, and 
souls look solemn in it. 

MARHAM. 

Go on, Oliver. You have more to say, have 
not you ? 

AUBIN. 

There are youthful pleasures an old man has 
no relish for ; and this grieves him for other rea- 
sons than I have said, perhaps. He, — I may say 
you, — you remember, uncle, your sports as a 
little child. They would be no pleasure to you 
now, if you were to try them, — that you know ; 
and so perhaps you are pained, as though you 
had lost some old and happy feelings by time's 
having changed your nature. But it is not so. 
As an old man, your soul is not of another kind, 
but only greater than it was when you used to 
clasp your mother's knees. There is no inno- 



EUTHANASY. 347 

cent happiness that a man ever grows strange to. 
You do not incline to bowl a hoop yourself ; but 
in showing little Arthur how to do it this morn- 
ing, and in watching him, and walking after him, 
and now and then touching the hoop yourself, I 
very much mistook appearances, if you were not 
quite as much delighted as the child. 

MARHAM. 

So I was, — that I was, good little fellow ! 
He is a wonderfully quick child ; is not he ? 

ATJBIN. 

Very ; and very good-tempered. 

MARHAM. 

Ay, he begged me to promise him another les- 
son to-morrow, which I did ; and you must come 
and help. But, running after little Arthur's hoop, 
I have got away from your line of argument ; but 
it was you who started me. 

ATJBIN. 

So it was ; and I have seen that you delight 
in a hoop now as much as you ever did ; only it 
is through the fingers of your grandson. 

MARHAM. 

You have me, you have me, — you have the 
old man ! 

ATTBIN. 

No, I have not, — not the old man. Your 
body may be old, but you yourself, — your spirit 
is as young as it ever was ; it is both old and 



348 ETITHANASY. 

young. When a person is said to be twenty, or 
forty, or sixty, what is meant ? This chiefly, 
that he has the feelings of those years. O, beau- 
tiful is what old age is sometimes, and nearly al- 
ways might be, — the last years of a Christian, a 
man who has lived in the use of his best feelings, 
who has worshipped God as heartily as he has 
loved his dearest friend, and who has loved every 
one of his neighbours like himself! 

MAK.HAM. 

The recollections of such a man are a happi- 
ness to have. 

AUBIN. 

Always through his sympathies he can delight 
himself, and be growing in goodness. There is 
his youngest son, in love with a sweet lady ; and 
through his child he himself loves again like a 
youth. Here is an infant comes to him and holds 
him by the hand, and he speaks to the little crea- 
ture ; and because he talks with it lovingly, his 
own heart in his breast grows young again. 
Plough he cannot, nor sow, nor attend to farm- 
ing in any way ; but he can, and does, love his 
neighbour as himself ; and so in the fields close 
by, the growing crops are a great interest to him ; 
and down in the meadows by the river-side, the 
grass refreshes his eyes, it is so green ; and its 
being so rich delights him on the owner's account. 
It is so, uncle, is not it ? It is so with you, I 
mean. 



EUTHANASY. 349 

MARHAM. 

Do you think so, Oliver ? Well, perhaps it is. 

AUBIN. 

An old man may have ill-health, but so has a 
young man. And very beautiful in its season 
old age often is, — the last state of a man who is 
wise in life, having lived it all ; who loves God 
and man, and man the more reverently because 
of God's loving him. And he is a man, too, 
whose heart is open to all his fellow- creatures, 
and kept open by the force of the prayers that 
come out of it, for his family, and friends, and all 
men. 

MARHAM. 

It is — it is — it is prayer is the life of the soul. 

AUBIN. 

The oak-tree in the middle of yonder field is 
an emblem of a good old man. There it stands, 
the growth of many, many years ; inside it is the 
little stalk which opened out of an acorn, and the 
sapling which for years used to bend backward 
and forward with the wind ; and in its trunk are 
what were its outside rings at twenty, fifty, and 
a hundred years old. It stands aloft now, a full 
grown oak, — an object beautiful to look at, and 
that is wisdom to think of. Once that tree might 
have perished by any one of a hundred accidents, 
— by a careless foot, or a drought, or a snail, or 
a hungry sheep. But it was to grow to what it is. 



350 EUTHANASY. 

In the shade of it the cattle lie ; in its leafy arms 
birds build their nests and sing ; among its branch- 
es the wind gets itself a voice ; somewhere in it 
the squirrel has a home, and all over the boughs 
are growing what will be his winter's store. 

MARHAM. 

But what is the likeness between this tree and 
old age ? 

ATTBIN. 

Just as in the middle of that oak there is the 
sapling of two hundred years ago, in a good old 
man there is the heart of his childhood. An aged 
Christian is not an old man only ; he is of all 
ages ; for he has in him the heart of a little child, 
and a boy's way of thinking, and the feelings of a 
youth, and the judgment of a man ; he has in him 
a son's fondness, a husband's tender affection, 
and a father's love ; and confidence, esteem, en- 
thusiasm, — all that is best in our nature is strong 
in him ; for though many of his dear objects are 
taken hence, his feelings for them are the same 
as ever. And through his ready sympathy, there 
is no love in the house that he does not thrill to, 
and no joy in parlour or kitchen that he does not 
rejoice in, and no hope in any inmate's bosom 
that he does not hope in. And if his neighbours 
prosper around him, or grow more virtuous, it 
is to his feeling as though he were himself the 
better. 



EUTHANASY. 351 

MARHAM. 

I like to hear you, Oliver ; go on. 

AUBIN. 

Outgrow much, no doubt, old age does. But 
mind, — it outgrows some things, but it does not 
dwindle down from any. And besides that, its 
way of growth is the same as what makes little 
children be such as the kingdom of heaven is of. 
For always out of the heart are the issues of life. 
Yonder oak is no longer an acorn moistening just 
under the ground ; nor a little plant in the turf, 
kept from scorching by the tall grass ; still, high 
as its top is, and wide as it spreads, the tree 
flourishes in the same way the sapling grew ; and 
its roots are under the grass, and are kept moist 
by it ; yes, and the heart of the oak — the very 
middle of it — is just over the spot where the 
acorn opened. Old age grows up to the height 
of thoughts not of this world ; but then its roots 
are the same as ever, — its sympathies do not 
fail it, and the dews of heavenly grace are never 
withheld from falling on it. It is always autumnal, 
but then it is always shedding ripe fruits ; and even 
the look of it is what every beholder is the better 
for feeling. 

MARHAM. 

O, if I thought the tree of my own old age like 
that, I should sit under it in peace, and, perhaps, 
— ay, perhaps with pride. For pride is a weed 



352 EUTHANASY. 

that will grow in shade as well as sunshine, in 
streets, and houses, and upon tombs, and every- 
where. 

AUBIN. 

That is one of the fruits of your wisdom, my 
dear uncle. Excuse my interrupting you, uncle. 

MARHAM. 

I am old, Oliver, but I am happy ; and I ought 
to be happier than I am. God pardon me for not 
being so ! Few old people have such comforts 
as I have ; and how desolate many of them are, 
— childless, friendless, and infirm ! I am sure, 
often I am wretched, when I think what their 
feelings must be. 

AUBIN. 

Those feelings, as far as they cannot be eased 
by man, are meant by God, and therefore meant 
for good. And then they can pray 

MARHAM. 

Yes, they can, they can ! There is no burden 
of the spirit but is lightened by kneeling under it. 
Little by little, the bitterest feelings are sweetened 
by the mention of them in prayer. And agony 
itself stops swelling, if it can only cry sincerely, 
My God, my God ! 

AUBIN. 

There is a degree of distress, in which all hu- 
man anodynes fail, and friendly words fail, and the 
best of reading fails ; but prayer never fails. 



EUTHANASY. 353 

MARHAM. 

Never, — never, — never. But still, to look 
at a bereaved and joyless old man is a melan- 
choly sight. 

AUBIN. 

Very melancholy ; because a quite joyless 
must be a quite unchristian man. 

MARHAM. 

You do not understand me, Oliver. What I 
mean is, that it is distressing to see a man spend 
years, as Solomon says so touchingly, which have 
no pleasure in them. It is as though it were out 
of the course of nature. No, that is not what 
I mean. 

AUBIN. 

I know w 7 hat you feel exactly. And now I 
will tell you what I feel. I see an old man, a 
widower, perhaps, bereaved of his children, very 
weak, and almost sleepless. In the cup of life, 
there are only a few dregs for his drinking. It is 
so. And what then ? Why, the cup will be the 
sooner ready for him to dip in the living foun- 
tains of water, which the Lamb from the midst of 
the throne will lead him to. Courage, thou poor 
sufferer ! No, not poor, — but happy I ought 
to have said. For in thy face there is what an- 
swers to something in another world. Yes, good 
old man ! It is as though it were known to thee, 
by some instinct, that Christ is just about rising 
23 



354 EUTHANASY. 

from his throne to say, " Come, thou blessed of 
my Father." 

MARHAM. 

Amen, Lord Jesus, amen ! 

ATTBIN. 

Whom the Lord loves, he chastens. But 
when a sufferer is chastened toward the end of 
life, and, indeed, till the very end of his mortal 
life, it is because God loves him immortally. It 
must be, and it cannot be otherwise. No ! it 
cannot be any other way than that. So that my 
pain, — what little I have, — my pain shall be 
counted all joy. And I will reckon it so. And 
cannot I easily ? I ought to do, if I only recol- 
lect myself a little. Why should I ever have 
been so impatient for happiness ? Why should I 
wish for more than I have now ? Am I afraid 
of my share being given away ? Cannot I wait 
awhile ? Thousands of years I had to wait be- 
fore being born ; so that to wait a short while be- 
fore being blessed is a very little thing, — very. 
Ay, ages on ages the stars had been twinkling 
by night, and the sun shining by day, before my 
reason was lighted up. And as yet I have it only 
in an earthen vessel, — a lamp of crumbling dust, 
that is wearing away fast. Well, let it wear 
away. For when the flame in it escapes, it will 
become fire before the Lord ; and it will be like 
a light set in a golden candlestick for ever ; and 



ETJTHANASY. 355 

it will be mine, — mine everlastingly. And it 
will nowhere be eclipsed, — no! not among the 
radiances of the angels ; for it will have from my 
life a color of its own ; and from God it will 
have a beauty of its own, and a glory of its own. 
Wonderful, very wonderful, this is, and yet it is 
certain, that, from among all the inhabitants of this 
earth, no two minds are similar altogether. And 
at the end of the world, of all the souls native to 
it, there will be no two alike. Every one of us 
will have a character of his own ; and every saint 
will have a glory of his own. And myself, what 
I am to be, I am becoming. Yes, what I am to 
be everlastingly, I am growing to be now, — now, 
in this present time so little thought of, — this 
time which the sun rises and sets in, and the 
clock strikes in, and I wake and sleep in. Cour- 
age, then ! For what goes on in my spirit now 
will show itself ages hence. They could never 
be to another person — my pains and thoughts — 
what they are to me, — not exactly. What I 
shall be in eternity, I shall be by my endurance 
now and my hopefulness. My trials I might bear 
with murmurs, and so I should get to doubt God ; 
or by hardening my heart against the feeling of 
them, and so I should become a stoic ; or by 
fiercely defying fate, and so I should grow athe- 
istical. But I endeavour to suffer Christianly. 
What I am to be hereafter, I must be becoming 



356 EUTHANASY. 

now ; and so I am, indeed. For, day by day, I 
am growing fixedly into the attitude which I bear 
my sorrows in ; and from under them, my look 
heavenwards, whatever it is, is becoming eternal 
with me. And then it is not as though any trouble 
could be spared me, and I not be other than what 
I am to be. O my destiny ! God keep me 
growing towards it ! My crown of glory ! Lord, 
make me worthy of it ! 

MARHAM. 

For some time I have not been able to catch 
all your words, Oliver. 

AUBIN. 

I thought some time I might be going into a 
furnace of affliction, and I was talking with my- 
self about it. And I was saying, " Body ! thou 
must burn away here, and for thee there is no 
help possible. But, soul ! out of this furnace, 
this straitened and fiery place, thou shalt es- 
cape, — 

And thou shalt walk in soft, white light, with kings and priests 

ahroad, 
And thou shalt summer high in bliss upon the hills of God." 

MARHAM. 

Whose lines are those ? 

AUBIN. 

They are Thomas Aird's, and a beautiful 
couplet. I often say them to myself ; and al- 
ways when I do, it is as though it were an August 



ETJTHANASY. 357 

afternoon, and I had lived for ages, while my 
spirit in me feels so calm, yet earnest, and as 
though it were growing into great thoughts. Yes ! 
and what is there I may not hope for ? For I am 
like Melchisedek of old ; and I am king and priest 
both ; for so to God Christ has made me be. 
Prayer is the sacrifice I have to offer ; and morn- 
ing and evening, day and night, it is welcome, for 
the Father seeks to have it. My passions are 
the subjects of my kingly rule, and my throne is 
the Gospel ; and from the height of it I judge the 
men, and things, and the affairs about me. My 
soul, my soul ! be thou faithful in judgment, and 
thou shalt grow up to the companionship of King 
Alfred, and St. Louis, and George Washington. 

And thou shalt walk in soft, white light, with kings and priests 

abroad, 
And thou shalt summer high in bliss upon the hills of God. 



358 EUTHANASY. 



CHAPTER XXXI. 

Transition into the divine is ever woful, yet it is life. 

Bettina Arnim. 

He that lives fourscore years is but like one 

That stays here for a friend : when death comes, then 

Away he goes, and is ne'er seen again. — Thomas Middleton. 

MARHAM. 

I have been thinking, Oliver, of what we 
talked about yesterday. What you said has done 
me good, though I wish I could remember it 
better. My memory is not what it was, I think. 
Well, I must be patient. I am an old man, and 
so patience ought to be my special business. 
There is not much else for me ; there is no work 
for me in the world. My share in life I have 
had, and there is no further part for me in the 
struggles and successes of it. Now I have to 
study to be quiet, and wait for my dismissal 

ATJBIN. 

Your admission, uncle. And it is a sublime 
waiting. Blackly the gates of the grave frown 
against us, outside them ; but from the inside they 
will be beautiful, for they will be seen through 
light that is not of the sun, nor the moon, but 
older ; yes, and newer, too, for what is eternal is 
always young. 



EUTHANASY. 359 

MARHAM. 

More trust is what I want. But it will grow 
in me, perhaps, with the patience that old age 
forces. For I must be patient ; and more and 
more I shall have to be. For with an old man 
friends die fast, hopes come to nothing, the world 
lessens in interest, and things that were once a 
passion are not cared about. 

AUBIN. 

Is it beginning to be so with you, uncle ? 
Then why is it ? There is an answer, and a 
happy one. It is because you are growing up to 
a higher order of things than what are of this 
earth. For what this world has to teach you, 
you have learned. 

MARHAM. 

O, no, no ! 

AUBIN. 

All the wisdom and freshness of the world you 
have not exhausted. But what each man's na- 
ture is capable of is commonly imbibed in three- 
score years and ten, though perhaps an angel 
might profit in this world for ages ; just as a 
daisy is perfect with one year's growth, while 
in the same soil an oak will be deepening with 
its roots, and rising with its head, for two cen- 
turies or more. Do you feel as though you 
might some time, perhaps, be weary of life, — 
be thinking that there is nothing new in it, and 



EUTHANASY. 

no more to be known from it ? Weary of it you 
will never be, uncle, for you will be patient, and 
always you will think that life, even as endurance 
only, will prove to be a privilege, and a rare one, 
perhaps ; for they are not many who live to ex- 
ercise the patience of fourscore years. The pa- 
tience of eighty years did I say ? I ought to 
have said the blessedness of them ; for with a 
God to be glad in, the believing soul must always 
be happy, or else be just about being the happier 
for suffering. 

MARHAM. 

Yes, and so I hope for more faith than I have. 
I want it. In my last days, I fear feeling to have 
no pleasure in them ; for it ought not to be so 
with me, as a Christian. 

AUBIN. 

Nor will it be, if you keep looking for the great 
hope, and the appearing of our Lord Jesus Christ. 
Childhood, youth, manhood, marriage, friendship, 
trading, study, pleasure, and sorrow, — you have 
got the good of them all ; and some of them you 
might have tired of, if they had lasted with you 
long, but now they feel like the first lessons in- 
troductory to a wondrous book that has to be 
opened yet. 

MARHAM. 

O, the very thought an old man ought to wait 
with ! 



EUTHANASY. 361 

AUBIN. 

Feelings and motives in hearts of flesh you 
know the working of, various as it may be ; so 
now you are ready for the knowledge of souls in 
some other than this fleshly estate. In the hum 
of the town that is near us, a youth hears what 
inspirits him ; but you do not, for you have heard 
it so long. And your heart, as it gets purer, 
craves a holiness that is not of this world ; and so 
the city of God is the easier for you to see with 
your eyes of faith ; and the less you are of this 
world, the more plainly are the voices to be heard 
which call to you from above to go up thither. 

MAK.HAM. 

And up there, O that I may go ! For thither 
they have ascended whose lives were parts of 
my life, and in whose deaths I died myself, — 
died deaths that have had no resurrections yet ; 
but they will have ; for every affection of mine 
will live again, or rather will be joy again in the 
sight of dear, recovered friends. But in this 
meanwhile I do not see them ; and others are 
being taken after them. 

AT7BIN. 

Yes, one by one 

MARHAM. 

And faster and faster 

AUBIN. 

There are being assembled in the other world 



362 EUTHANASY. 

all your kindred, both after the flesh and after the 
spirit ; and with their going hence, this world is 
to you less and less like an abiding-place. 

MARHAM. 

As you know, Oliver, my friends have died 
fast lately. 

AUBIN. 

And become spirits, and friends of yours gone 
into bliss. And with every longing after them, 
you grow more akin to heaven. And so, out 
of the very decay of this life, there grows in you 
the spirit of another life. 

MAKHAM. 

Once I saw a large tree so hollow as to be lit- 
tle better than a case of bark ; still it was living. 
But inside the tree, and overtopping it, grew a 
sapling so strong and green. And the hull of 
the old tree was a fence round the young one ; 
though, indeed, they were both one tree, for they 
had the same root, and it was only the stem re- 
newing itself. A very curious and pretty sight it 
was. And it pleased me, as being a happy em- 
blem of myself. And I said, " My life is rooted 
in God fast and everlasting, and though outward- 
ly I may perish, there is within me a life to be 
renewed to all eternity." 

AUBIN. 

Such a tree I myself saw near Dieventer in 
Holland, with an old man and a little child near 



EUTHANASY. 



it. A very old man he was. He must be dead 
before this, and his grandchild be growing up 
into his place in the world. Dead is a word that 
must be used ; so that I wish all wrong meaning 
could be kept out of it. For there is a sense in 
which that old man is not dead, and never will 
be, though departed he is, no doubt. Through 
one minute's look at him, he lives on in my mem- 
ory ; and does not he, then, surely live on in the 
universe that produced and supported him ? O, 
surely, surely ! Since I saw what I have been 
speaking of, I have never once recollected it till 
this minute, and it is as though I saw it now. 
Even without my knowledge, that scene has lived 
on in me six years. Now my soul is like a thought 
in God ; so I will never fear dying out of the Di- 
vine mind. Last night it occurred to me that to 
be remembered of God is to live in him. And 
so it is, I have no doubt, though to-day I do not 
understand how. For there are some truths 
which at one time are quite plain, though at 
another they seem obscure. This is according 
to what mood we are in. Just as the stars shine 
more or less brightly with the state of the atmos- 
phere. 

MARHAM. 

There cannot be any forgetfulness in God, and 
all things live in him according to their nature, 
the robin for its two or three years, the lark for 
its seven or eight, and the raven for its century. 



364 EUTHANASY.' 

ATJBIN. 

In God the fountains rise, and the rivers run, 
and the oceans ebb and flow ; and shall not my 
spirit continue to be a spirit in him ? But in 
death there is the loss of the body ; and in 
health, is not there a losing of the body and a re- 
gaining of other flesh every minute ? And then, 
has a river the same water running in it any two 
hours together ? A fountain is a fountain, in 
God, for a hundred, a thousand, and many thou- 
sand years ; so I will not fear but my soul will 
be a soul in him for ages of ages, as the Greek 
has it, or, in our English phrase, for ever. 



ETJTHANASY. 



CHAPTER XXXII. 

Virtue thus 
Sets forth and magnifies herself; thus feeds 
A calm, and beautiful, and silent fire, 
From the encumbrances of mortal life, 
From error, disappointment, nay, from guilt. 

"Wordsworth. 

ATJBIN. 

As I got up from my bedside prayer this 
morning, I said, " I am ; and because I am what 
I am, I am immortal." Do you not feel the 
force of this ? Nor do I now, though I did this 
morning, but perhaps with my heart more than 
my head, and that, perhaps, was more sensitive 
just after prayer than it is now. 

MAEHAM. 

I am well persuaded that after earnest prayer 
the mind is clearest, and the will is freest, and 
the judgment is wisest, and that then thoughts 
come to us most nearly like Divine messages. 
And after kneeling to God, our first few steps are 
almost certainly in the way of eternal life. It is 
after having drawn nigh to God, that our feelings 
are most nearly like Divine guidance. So that 
the thought you had this morning may be quite 
true, though you may not be able to tell how it is. 



366 EUTHANASY. 

AUBIN. 

Uncle, there is a state of mind between prayer 
and reasoning, in which the windows of heaven 
are partly open above us, and while we are look- 
ing upwards, we have at the same time some 
sight of things about us ; and in the light of God, 
they look in a way which is not to be doubted, 
though not to be proved, nor even spoken of, 
easily. 

MARHAM. 

God is with us nigher than we suppose ; and 
he is in many of the workings of our souls, — 
a power that we do not think of. 

ATJBIN. 

I have some thoughts, on the first coming of 
which into my mind I clasped my hands and 
said, " O, not of my own thinking are these, but 
thy glorious sending, O my soul's God, thou God 
of truth ! " And sometimes I have had such 
beauty in my soul, that I could not but believe it 
a something out of heaven. And some seasons 
have felt to me, O, so unearthly, so unlike what 
the tongue can vouch for, that I am sure of there 
being a heaven nigh me, and of its spirit reaching 
into my spirit at times. These are experiences 
that I do not distrust, for they are akin to what 
our Saviour says of his doctrine being to be 
known to be of God by the doing of it. The 
Christian heaven, — does any disciple wish to be 



EUTHANASY. 367 

sure of its existence ? He can know it for him- 
self. There is even a sixpence that will let him 
into what will be blessed certainty for him ; but it 
must be his last coin, and he must halve it with a 
worse sufferer than himself ; and then for a while 
he will be inside the golden gates, and under him 
the earth will be like holy ground, and there will 
be the feeling of a glory round his head, and there 
will be the thronging round him of a presence like 
that of angels, and in his ears there will be the 
delight of a Divine voice, saying, " My son, my 
son, in thee I am well pleased." 

MARHAM. 

O, very precious such experiences are ; and 
they might be commoner with us than they are. 
For God is to be, and indeed is, felt in every 
mood that is godlike. But it is the loving soul 
that believes most easily, and knows most largely 
what the Divine purposes are. 

AUBIN. 

I have moments, in which immortality feels too 
great a thing for us men, — incredibly great. 
And for joy sometimes, and sometimes for fear, 
I cannot assure myself of my ever being to walk 
alongside the river of life. I remember once 
feeling in this way, and I sat down on a bank to 
think. And I saw minnows, and other happy 
little things, that dart about in brooks ; and I said 
to myself, that they had not been too little for 



368 EUTHANASY. 

God's making. And with looking at them, I got 
to love them. And then I felt the more tenderly 
God's love of myself, — that love which insects 
live in, as well as angels. Then I said to myself, 
"Let God do with me what he will, any thing 
he will ; and whatever it be, it will be either 
heaven itself or some beginning of it." Nothing 
of God's making can a man love rightly, without 
being the surer of God's loving himself, —neither 
the moon, nor the stars, nor a rock, nor a tree, 
nor a flower, nor a bird. And not the least 
grateful of my thanksgivings have been hymns, 
that have come of themselves on to my lips, while 
I have been listening to the birds of an evening. 
Only let us love what God loves, and then his 
love of ourselves will feel certain, and the sight 
of his face we shall be sure of; and immortality, 
and heaven, and the freedom of the universe, be 
as easy for us to believe in, as a father's giving 
good gifts to his children. 

MARHAM. 

How should we know any thing rightly about 
God, without loving him ? It is only with the 
heart that we can believe unto salvation. 

AUBIN. 

Infinite power, wisdom infinite, infinite love, 
infinite life, — the God of infinities we would 
gladly offer ourselves up to, all of us, willing 
sacrifices. But many of us shrink from some 



EUTHANASY. 369 

small offering when we are led up to the altar, if 
it is in an obscure corner of the world, or lowly 
in look. For, at first, our wish is to perform 
grand service before many witnesses ; but this is 
not what God wants often, and so it is seldom a 
person is called to it ; but what he does wish is 
the sincerity of the soul. And when a soul does 
become all his own, it is lit up from w T ithin with 
such Divine light as glorifies every thing else. 
Duty is an angel, reverently beloved, that walks 
beside the man, with solemn steps ; and common 
life is a path, shining before him more and more ; 
and the future is a mist which he will pass through, 
and so be nigher God ; and if to-day the world 
feels round him like a temple for worship in, then 
to-morrow there will be a further world for him 
to pass on into, and it will be the holy of holies ; 
so his fervor trusts. 

MARHAM. 

Virtue known and praised by a whole town has 
its reward, perhaps, in popularity ; but they are 
the good deeds, done by one hand unknown to 
the other, and they are the prayers prayed in se- 
cret, that have the special promise of reward by 
our Father in heaven. The only virtue that 
speaks of a reward at all plainly is what says 
least about it, and it is what can lose money, and 
forego opportunities, and be misunderstood by 
24 



370 EUTHANASY. 

friends, and be alone in the world, happy enough 
in only hoping for heaven. 

AUBIN. 

The hopefulness of human nature is infinite, 
and in a good heart it is unquenchable ; and it is 
evidence of heirship to what is not of this world. 

MARHAM. 

But, Oliver, what are our fears ? for sometimes 
our hearts are as though they could misgive us 
about a world to come. 

AUBIN. 

Fears are angel-thoughts in black, telling the 
same grand message of another life as our hopes 
do ; only they are mourners the while for what 
un worthiness is in us. 

MARHAM. 

Such a life as yours was for that long time 
would have made almost any body else heart-sick 
for the rest of his years. But I do think with you 
calamity must have been all joy. 

AUBIN. 

It is a joy to think of, but it was not to bear ; 
and I mourned under it more than was right. 
For I fancied a life was being bowed into the 
dust, that otherwise would have been of some 
height in the world. Once, from being well off, 
I was made poor, through offence being taken at 
what I did religiously, and which you know of. 
Those persecutors are now dear remembrances 



EUTHANASY. 371 

of mine, because, but for my forgiveness of them, 
I could not be so sure as I am of my being my- 
self forgiven by God. They knew not what they 
did; and most of them — five or six — would 
say so now. 

MARHAM. 

But they did you good, Oliver, when you did 
not think it, nor they either. For what blows 
were struck against you, God directed to the 
sculpturing out of a feature in your character, that 
would otherwise have been less noble than it is. 

ATJBIN. 

And, uncle, I have a tender interest in the men 
who made me endure grief for what was my con- 
science toward God ; because this is said in the 
Scriptures to be fellowship with Christ's suffer- 
ings. This is a world in which we are being 
tempted together, and some of us perfected to- 
gether, — all of us, if we will. Much of what I 
am, I am become by the wrongs I have done, and 
got pardoned, — griefs which I caused my parents 
and teachers, my school-fellows, and one or two 
fellow-students. Yes, among us men, these three 
things are a large part of our virtue, — to endure, 
to forgive, and ourselves to get pardon. And so 
my enemies, through repenting towards me, be- 
come other and perhaps better than they would 
have been but for wronging me. Christ died for 
the world ; and we have fellowship with his suf- 



372 EUTHANASY. 

ferings, when we endure and forgive persecutors ; 
for through a right spirit toward them, earlier or 
later, they will be changed. Yes, to endure 
wrongfully and forgivingly is to be bruised for 
other men, and in the end to have them healed 
with our stripes. Let a man suffer with Christ, 
and he will know of his being to reign with him ; 
for there will rise in his soul such a strange, strong 
persuasion of it. So, uncle, I have forgiven my 
enemies, and I love them ; at least I trust I do. 
They made me suffer much and unjustly ; but it 
was because I had been calumniated to them by 
their passions. 

MARHAM. 

That was five years ago ; and at that time, 
Oliver, I should not myself have understood you 
rightly ; I should have been unjust to you, I am 
afraid. 

ATJBIN. 

You might have been cold towards me, but, my 
dear uncle, you would never have been false nor 
unfair. But those words I ought not to use ; they 
would not betoken me much the better for having 
had all manner of evil said and done against me 
falsely. And this is a thing that I ought to be 
blessed for having had happen to me. O uncle, 
what I once hoped to do, and how I have failed 
of it ! But I think I did my best ; and no one 
can do more than that. We do what we can in 



EUTHANASY. 373 

this earth, and we cannot achieve more. Our 
human ability has its bounds far short of controll- 
ing the planets, and infinitely short of regulating 
destiny. We work according to our means ; and 
perhaps we are thwarted by the enmity of the 
world or by Mammon ; but these are God's ene- 
mies as well as ours, and they fight against him 
more than against us. If what is godlike in us 
brings trouble on us, it is God's concern more 
than ours, — the Master's more than his servants'. 
There is not a righteous failure anywhere but 
compromises Divine Providence, and is what 
God will see to. 

MARHAM. 

We Christians work for God, and not for our- 
selves ; and when we fail even utterly, it is only 
to find our cause retrieved in heaven. 

AUBIN. 

O, we should expect to live again, — at least I 
should, — if it were only to hear sentence given on 
such righteous causes as have been cried down in 
this world. If I were no Christian, I should yet 
think in my flesh to hear God speak, though it 
were only to justify to men what had been the 
lives of Socrates, and Barneveldt, and Madame 
Roland. Good, and just, and great, and devout, 
was De Barneveldt ; and before the sword went 
through his neck, his last words were, " O God, 
what then is man ? " This was more than two 



374 ET7THANAST. 

hundred years ago. The words went up from 
off a scaffold into the air, and they have not been 
answered yet ; but they will be some time, if there 
is any truth in the truth, or any meaning in con- 
science. This is what I should have thought, 
without being a Christian. But now I know of a 
day in which the world will be judged in right- 
eousness ; and there is not a man but, one way 
or another, makes me surer of it. 

MARHAM. 

I like what you said just now about our suffer- 
ing from one another. And it is so great a pleas- 
ure to hear it from you, after your having been 
so misunderstood, and 

AUBIX. 

That my world did not know what I was in it, 
is nothing ; for think of the years that went over 
before Jesus Christ was known ; and, indeed, is 
he known yet ? And in a world in which Christ 
suffered for his goodness, and was an outcast, 
without a place to lay his head in, it would be 
almost a fearful thing to be altogether comforta- 
ble ; so I have sometimes thought, and so I 
should still feel, only that my happiness has come 
through Christ, — through your Christian love, 
uncle Stephen. At ease in a world in which my 
Lord was such a sufferer ! I hope, if I had been, 
I should have made occasions of self-sacrifice. 

MARHAM. 

Why, Oliver, your poverty did come 



EUTHANASY. 375 

AUBIN. 

Only of what I could not help doing for my 
conscience. 

MARHAM. 

And it was Christ in you, — your conscience 
was ; for if it had not been, you would not have 
acted as you have done more than once. And 
you have made religion of your sorrows, and so 
you have become what I am so glad of. 

AUBIN. 

And happier than I should have been other- 
wise. For a man who knows how to sorrow 
rightly knows how to be glad with a holy joy ; 
and when he is happiest, it is as though there 
were a something of God throbbing in his bosom. 
It is as souls that we are happiest ; and so suffer- 
ing makes for happiness, because it helps to make 
the soul. O, what good sorrow does us often ! 
To many a one, while he is happy, the outer 
world feels eternal ; but as soon as he is sorrow- 
ful, all worldly existence is only a film, because 
God and his soul feel so close. 

MARHAM. 

Like as a father pities his suffering child, and 
embraces it for it to feel his love the better, so 
the Lord makes himself felt with his sorrowing 
creatures. 

AUBIN. 

While I am happy in myself, there is a God 



376 EUTHANASY. 

plain to my eyes in the broad green turf, in the 
branching tree, and in the flowing stream ; and it 
overarches me in the firmament, which is not only 
blue, but a holy joy to look at ; and from the sky 
at night, it watches me with ten million eyes ; 
and sometimes it makes me clasp my hands and 
say, " O Lord, our Lord, how • excellent is thy 
name in all the earth ! " This is when I am in 
joy ; but when I am in grief, and in want of some 
loving assurance from God, I do not think of out- 
ward things, — fruits ripening on trees, or wheat- 
ears waving yellow and thick against harvest ; 
and the stars vanish from between me and God, 
and so almost does my body, and I have quite 
another feeling of him than what nature can give ; 
and through my grief, God is nigher me than 
through his own glory in creation. For it is 
whom the Lord loves that he chastens. In afflic- 
tion, I am with God almost spirit with spirit ; and 
then there forms within my soul that conscious- 
ness of adoption which cries, " Father ! Father ! " 
O, yes ! we belong to the world we cry to more 
than to this one we suffer in. 

MARHAM. 

For we are not in the flesh, but in the spirit, if 
so be that the spirit of God dwell in us ; as St. 
Paul says, before writing of that spirit of adop- 
tion whereby we cry, Abba, Father ! 



EUTHANASY. 377 

AITBIN. 

That cry is not formed in the throat, nor does 
it come any way of nerves and veins ; it is not of 
the body ; and so it witnesses a life not of the 
body, — more than witnesses, for it is the thing 
itself. I am one with God through the earnest- 
ness of prayer, — the Father ! Father ! that I cry 
in my agony. I feel myself in God, and God in 
me, and the world is nothing to me, neither life 
nor death ; for I am as though I were past and 
through them all, and as though I had almost en- 
tered on the sight of God, — the Beatific Vision, 
the Divine Ecstasy. Now, as I think, these 
spiritual states, unearthly as they are, are to be 
regarded as promising a disembodied life ; just 
as, while I was an infant, my ears and eyes were 
prophetic of what was to be a world of sight and 
sound for me to live in. 

MARHAM. 

But, Oliver, there are those for whom sorrow 
is not only a dark night, but bewilderment ; and 
so they lose hope ; what would you say to them ? 

AITBIN. 

Your sacrifice is burning on the altar, and 
around you the temple of life is filled with smoke, 
and no light comes in through the windows, and 
the very walls you cannot see ; but you know 
where you are ; for as long as you suffer, you are 
nigh the altar. That you know, and by that 



378 EUTHANASY. 

knowledge hold fast. Be quiet, fear not ; and 
be you sure that when your sacrifice is over, one 
after the other, the windows that open into the in- 
finite — faith and hope — will show themselves ; 
and the air about you w 7 ill be the clearer and 
the sweeter for having been so darkened awhile. 

MAE.HAM. 

It ought always to be enough for us to be sure 
of God's being with us. But, Oliver, there have 
been times when I have not believed as I ought 
to have done ; and perhaps it may be so with me 
again, for sometimes misgivings come into the 
mind the oftener for being resisted. 

AUBIN. 

And so they always do, I think. But I would 
have you think as I do, dear uncle. As I am 
now, a little trouble would darken my spirit, so 
as that hope could not shine into it at all ; but I 
look over the earth, and up at the clouds, and 
into infinity beyond ; and then I remember that I 
can shut it all out, with only my hand on my 
eyes : and so I. am quiet, even when it seems as 
though the whole firmament of truth were hidden 
from me ; for this may happen through only a 
very little cloud of doubt. 

MARHAM. 

When doubts are over, we are the better for 
having been under them. And this is what we 
ought to remember. And when in trouble, we 



EUTHANASY. 379 

ought to think how much the better we shall be 
for it, some time. 

ATJBIN. 

Sorrow sobers us, and makes the mind genial. 
And in sorrow we love and trust our friends 
more tenderly, and the dead become dearer to us. 
And just as the stars shine out in the night, so 
there are blessed faces that look at us in our grief, 
though before their features were fading from our 
recollections. Suffering ! Let no man dread it 
too much, because it is good for him, and it will 
help to make him sure of his being immortal. It 
is not in the bright, happy day, but only in the 
solemn night, that other worlds are to be seen 
shining in their long, long distances. And it is in 
sorrow, — the night of the soul, — that we see 
farthest, and know ourselves natives of infinity, 
and sons and daughters of the Most High. 

MAK.HAM. 

Yes, Oliver, there is use in old age, and it is 
well that this life should commonly end with ill- 
ness. 

AITBIN. 

It is nothing to me, now, what men think of 
me. But what I am to God is every thing. 
Pain simplifies the character ; and I think what 
little I have had has wrung more than one little 
hypocrisy out of me. It has been worth my 
being ill, only for this. Sometimes I feel as 



3S0 EUTHANASY. 

though I would not have one fault or weakness 
unknown to you, uncle. And I do think, in the 
kindly atmosphere of home, that a character will 
always grow the faster and the healthier for being 
exposed all round, — for having every foible 
known to those who will kindly allow for it. I 
never did care much, I hope, but now I do not 
care at all, to be esteemed even as what I am ; 
and so I think and feel, and talk with persons 
more freely, and perhaps more pleasantly, than I 
used to do. Smooth, and paint, and varnish the 
trunk and boughs of the oak, and the majesty of 
it will be less hurt than the grandeur of the soul is 
by its attempting to look what it is not, either in 
knowledge, or feeling, or manners. O, I remem- 
ber once there came into my mind a thought as 
though out of heaven, and I said to myself, 
" What I am I am, and I will not pretend to be 
more " ; and suddenly I felt as though I were 
right with every law of the universe, and as 
though there were a way certain for me up to 
the fatherly presence of Him who said of himself, 
" I am that I am." 

MABHAM. 

Oliver, from what unexpected things I have 
heard from you many times, I could well believe 
that there are few things in this present life but 
do rightly witness to the life that is to come. 



EUTHANASY. 381 

AUBIN. 

Annoyances, distractions, troubles, wrongs ! 
In enduring them, the persuasion rises in us of 
our not being born for such things only. For by 
them the soul's sense of order is wronged ; and 
by that very feeling, she knows herself meant for 
another element than the stormy one of this 
world. And now and then, amid her distresses, 
in a more than usually perfect way, the soul has 
the peace of God rise in her, and she witnesses 
to herself, " This peace is not of this world ; and 
if not of this world, then it must be of another, 
and I myself must be of it too." And when a 
wrong is done us, and we bear with it, and are 
grieved for the evil-doers, sometimes it is as 
though the angels of heaven were looking at us, 
and as though there were an instinct in the soul, 
that actions higher than this world reach a sym- 
pathy beyond it. And so they do. And so, 
under injustice, we Christians can rejoice and be 
exceeding glad on account of our great reward in 
heaven. 

MARHAM. 

Badness shows the certain existence of good- 
ness, as being its natural reverse. And the 
world is never so out of tune, but some strain of 
heaven is to be heard in it by the ear that is 
spiritual. 



382 EUTHANASY. 

AUBIN. 

Nearly always, uncle, music makes me feel 
myself what I am not, but what I must think I am 
to be ; for as a boy I knew something of what 
my manhood would be, by the manly feelings I 
had now and then. In listening to music, it is as 
though there were stirring in me the beginnings 
of another manner of life than what is possible to 
be lived in the flesh, or be thought of either, — 
but certainly freer and more earnest. 

MARHAM. 

I have felt the same, or rather what you speak 
of ; for what you understand to be the meaning of 
it, I had certainly never thought of before. But 
is it really a thought, or only a fancy of yours ? 

AUBIN. 

It is a belief of mine, but of course a very 
slight one. And, indeed, I think our nature af- 
fords many more tokens of being immortal than 
are commonly minded. This world's feeling so 
mean and poor argues us bora for what is higher. 

MARHAM. 

And so we are ; for we are heirs of God, and 
joint heirs with Christ. 

AUBIN. 

It sounds profanely, that horses have been sta- 
bled, and cooking-fires been lit, in cathedrals. 
But the thought of God is a holier temple than a 
minster is, and sometimes we live in it worse 



EUTHANASY. 383 

than soldiers in a church ; for really discontent- 
ment is blasphemy, and an ill look against another 
is a curse. O, sometimes it feels to me quite pro- 
fane that I should be living ; and I draw in my 
breath slowly, as though unworthy of God's air ; 
and it is to me as though the brightest life of man 
would be but a dark track on the shining floor of 
heaven. 

MARHAM. 

Ah, yes ! what is our goodness ? what is our 
virtue ? Nothing, nothing ! 

AUBIN. 

Not only men, but even their thoughts, by being 
humble, get exalted. This world is nothing ; and 
so it may well be to me, if I am heir to a Father 
in heaven, and to some one of his many mansions. 
At times, the brightest virtue of man is dim to 
me ; and why ? It is because the eyes of my 
understanding are opening, against I have sight of 
God. This world is mean to me, only because 
I have eyes not of this world ; because I am 
growing a new creature in Christ. 

MARHAM. 

You seem to me to rely so confidently, Oli- 
ver 

AUBIN. 

On the same kind of argument as the author of 
the Epistle to the Hebrews makes use of, when 
he writes, that a man comes to God only through 



384 EUTHANASY. 

first believing in his existence. Could we have 
called upon God if he had not wished it ? For 
could not he have made us so as to have had no 
feeling of him, and no want of him ? That I can 
pray, " Lord, help me ! " is a proof that he will 
help me. Because a prayer can be prayed at all, 
there is certainly a Divine ear to hear it. It is 
because I can call upon God in the day of trouble, 
that I may be sure there is help for me, some- 
where or somehow, under Providence. Here is 
a parent, who is all anxiety and love for his child. 
And what his child is to him, he feels as though 
he himself might be to God. By his nature, by 
the way he is made to feel, his own trust in God 
is the stronger for his child's trust in himself. 
My God, my God, help me as a father ! — when 
a man prays so, is it no more than if he had 
wished well to himself ? It is not merely that the 
man is allowed to pray, but he is made to do it ; 
and his heart in him is made in such a way that 
he prays out of it the more believingly for his being 
a father. 

MARHAM. 

That I quite think, Oliver. 

AUBIN. 

It is not by chance, but by design, that a man's 
becoming a father makes him pray the more be- 
lievingly. And so you think, uncle. And I think 
myself that every way of feeling is to be trusted 
to, that grows out of a Christian heart. 



EUTHANASY. 385 

MARHAM. 

Yes, out of a heart that really is Christian. 

AUBIN. 

The purer in heart I become, the more I want 
to see God. 

MARHAM. 

A blessed want ; for Christ has promised it 
shall be satisfied. 

AUBIN. 

And through Christ in me, I am sure of it. 
My soul yearns to God ; then it will be taken 
into the bosom of the Father, some time. God 
is love, God is truth ; and he would not have let 
me long for his face, if he had meant me never to 
see it. 

MARHAM. 

No, he would not ; for if we are made to hun- 
ger, it is so that we may eat ; or if to thirst, it is 
because drink is to be had, and because it is good 
for us. 

AUBIN. 

The universe is juster than my justice, and 
better than my best thoughts, and will work to a 
more blessed end than even my love can hope, 
so that safely I may trust in it, all I can, and un- 
boundedly. 

MARHAM. 

A mother may forget her child, but God can- 
not forget us. 

25 



386 EUTHANASY. 

AUBIN. 

No, never. And when a child dies, and a 
mother feels as though, if gone for ever, the uni- 
verse might have perished with it, is not it as 
though the truth of the universe were pledged to 
her for her seeing her child again ? I think so. 
And by the beauty of every star that shines, by 
every thing good in this world, and by all that 
God has done in our knowledge, and by every 
thing right we know of him, that mother will have 
her child again. 

MARHAM. 

Yes, she will. And we shall all of us have 
our hopes, — such of them as are pure. For 
nothing of God's giving dies from us into the 
great grave of the world, without there being to 
be a resurrection for it, in some more glorious 
form. For nothing can fall from us, and be for- 
gotten before God. 

AUBIN. 

If I had ever known a stone the law of gravita- 
tion did not hold good by, then I might fear for 
myself proving the one soul which God might for- 
get. But it is God's being in it, that holds the 
earth together ; and there is not a grain of sand 
but feels him, nor a thought of mine but is a wit- 
ness of him. For could I remember, could I 
think, without faculties ? and they are not of my 
own maintaining in me. Because if it were not 



EUTHANASY. 387 

for God, my soul would dissipate at once. So 
that my very fear of being forgotten is a proof that 
I am not. 

MAE.HAM. 

Well, so it is. There is no one who would not 
easily believe in a life to come, if this present life 
were the wonderful thing to him it ought to be. 

AUBIN. 

Sometimes it does seem to me so wonderful 
that I should be alive ! It quite startles me for 
the moment ; and I cannot help saying to myself 
that I am, — I am, — I am. It is so strange that 
the world should be, and I be in it, and walking 
about it, that it is as though voices from above 
might call to me, " Thou ! thou art alive, — alive 
out of nothing. And thou ! what, what art thou 
doing now ? " This hand of mine ! it is curious, 
very curious, more curiously made than I know. 
Whether a brute knows any thing of himself or 
not, I cannot tell ; but this I do know, that I am 
myself fearfully and wonderfully made. And this 
fearfulness and wonder ! my God ! it is thyself ; it 
is what I have my being in. When I clench my 
hand, it is through power of thy lending, O God ! 
— power that thou knowest of, and that I am 
to answer for the use of. By what I am, Lord 
God ! what I am to be is nothing so strange. I 
was born of my mother, and she of her mother, 
but not without God ; for one hair of their heads 



388 EUTHANASY. 

they had not themselves the power to make white 
or black. And besides, Eve was not born of 
herself, nor did she spring out of the dust, nor did 
she get Vnade by chance, nor did Adam. Some- 
times, if I could doubt my existence, I should ; 
for it does seem so strange, that for all eternity I 
should not have been, and now, this year, that I 
should be. Ay, when I think of it, the miracle 
is in my being at all, and not in my being to be 
again. 






EUTHANASY. 389 



CHAPTER XXXIII. 

But enough is said to make a speculative man see, that if God should join 
the soul of a lately dead man, even whilst his corpse should lie entire in his 
winding-sheet here, unto a body made of earth taken from some mountain 
in America, it were most true and certain, that the body he should then 
live by were the same identical body he lived with before his death and late 
resurrection. It is evident that sameness, thisness and thatness, belongeth 
not to matter by itself, for a general indifference runneth through it all, but 
only as it is distinguished and individuated by the form. 

Kenelm Digby. 



AUBIN. 

I do not think embalming a body is right. 

MARHAM. 

Why not ? For is not it natural to attempt it ? 

AUBIN. 

But then who are they to whom it is natural ? 
The old worshippers of Isis and Osiris, rather 
than us Christians. It is according to nature for 
a dead body to rot and vanish ; and so we ought 
to let it, for no one can attempt to mend the ways 
of nature and not maim himself some way. 

MARHAM. 

But how in embalming a human body ? 

ATJBIN. 

In his feelings about death and the dead. In 
any thing to violate nature is to wrong one's 
self. 






390 EUTHANASY. 

MARHAM. 

I know it will be no matter to me what becomes 
of my body, any more than of my clothes ; yet I 
feel as though it would be pleasanter, if I knew 
why my body must dissolve. 

AUBIN. 

It would have been an awful thing if the human 
body had continued fresh after death, and only 
with the breath out. We could not then have 
buried a body, nor hidden it away, without bru- 
talizing ourselves. And besides, it would have 
made us feel at last as though we were only 
bodies ; and death would have been a worse ter- 
ror to us than he is. And then, uncle, I am sure 
that wrong feeling about dead bodies vitiates faith 
in immortality. Besides, if I died to-morrow, 
why should my corpse be felt about so strangely, 
when it would be only one of several bodies that 
I have had and worn out. For it is said that in 
the human frame every particle is changed in seven 
years. But now how begins the gravestone ? 
"Here lieth the body of John Smith." But 
more truly it would say, M Here lies the last of 
the bodies of John Smith," or " Here lies the 
body from which John Smith departed," or 
"Here lies the body which John Smith had the 
day when he departed this life." Either one of 
these forms is truer than what the stonecutter 
uses, and, as well as being more correct, is hap- 
pier to think of. 



EUTHANASY. 391 

MARHAM. 

And if truer, then better every way. I should 
not see much of the sublimity of a mountain, if 
while looking at it I had a mote in my eye ; but 
the grave-mound of a friend is a greater matter 
than the Alps are to some of my feelings ; so in 
those feelings I would not have any thing false, if 
possible. As rightly as I can, let me think and 
feel in regard to my friend's disappearance. 

ATJBIN. 

In some countries, a corpse is not to be touch- 
ed for fear of being made unclean by it, while in 
some others it is tended almost as though alive. 
There have been countries in which the dead 
have been lodged more grandly than the living ; 
and in some places, they are hurried out of sight 
indecently quick. 

MARHAM. 

It is custom, chiefly ; else I was going to say 
that carelessness about the remains of the dead 
would argue but little kindly feeling one with 
another, among the living. 

ATJBIN. 

I feel solemnly among the old walls and arches 
of what was once a church ; and shall I feel less 
reverently beside what was once a saintly man to 
look at ? Mere flesh and bones, — dust returning 
unto dust, — is it ? What, then, are the remains 
of Fountain Abbey, of Rievaulx Abbey, and at 



392 ETTTHANASY. 

Castleacre ? Stones and lime ; and with poor 
workmanship in them compared with the make of 
a human body. The body of a departed saint is 
dead, so it is ; but it is the ruins of what was 
once a temple of the Holy Ghost. It is a dis- 
used temple ; in it, loving wishes no longer form 
and rise to God like incense ; the light of reason 
in it is put out ; the book of remembrance in it is 
shut, and there is no more reading from it ; di- 
vine service in it is over, and an eternal Amen 
has been said to it by Fate ; and at the soul's 
going forth from her temple, there was joy, though 
elsewhere than among men. 

MARHAM. 

Yes, we are temples of God ; or rather our 
persons are, as long as our souls are in them. It 
is the indwelling spirit that makes flesh and blood 
be a temple. We will remember this, and so 
not think more of the temple than of what sancti- 
fies it. 

ATJBIN. 

On York Minster there are always repairs go- 
ing on, and it is the same with the human temple. 
From what it was ten years ago, every particle 
of my body has been changed ; but it is not so 
with my soul. Four times over has my body 
been changed ; and when it is changed at last, it 
will only be seven years more swiftly than before. 
And after all, we shall not quit the world more 



EUTHANASY. 393 

suddenly than we entered it. It is more than ten 
years since there was in my body any thing of 
the limbs I used to run with as a boy ; but I 
have the thoughts I had then, and very likely 
every one of them, though not to be called up at 
will. Now is not this proof enough of spiritual 
existence ? It is what Dr. Johnson did not know 
of, perhaps, when he would have liked to have 
seen a spirit. A strange wish ! 

MARHAM. 

He was confident in there being a world of 
spirits ; but he had never seen it, and so 

ATJBIN. 

Nor have I ever seen my own head ; but that 
I have it, I am sure. But you will say I can 
handle it with my hands. And so I can ; but 
then I have to depend on the correctness of what 
feeling is in my hands, and that is what I cannot 
be certain of. In every thing, for the correct- 
ness of what knowledge we get, even through 
our eyes and ears, we have to trust the truth of 
our make, an<i so at last of our Maker. My bod- 
ily faculties I have used as trustworthy ; and at 
least as much I will trust what spiritual feelings I 
have been made with. And I think there are 
thoughts which I should sooner and more rightly 
trust than either my eyes or my ringers. I should 
not believe in another world, for seeing a crowd 
of ghosts, at all more firmly than I do now. For 



394 EUTHANASY. 

then I should have to credit my eyesight ; and 
since trust I must, I can quite as surely trust 
what witness of the spirit there is in my spirit. 
When I go down on my knees, sometimes there 
is that from within me which calls aloud, " Fa- 
ther ! Father ! " And always that cry is answer- 
ed, because that yearning of the spirit changes 
into its own answer, into a mingled feeling of 
awe, and faith, and love ; and it is as though I 
were wrapped round with a cloud, and were spo- 
ken to from above, " My son, my son, in whom 
I am pleased ! " 

MARHAM. 

There is much truth in what you said once, 
Oliver, that if a man feels like Christ, he will get 
to think like him more and more. And we get 
to feel like Christ by doing his commandments. 

AUBIN. 

A man has doubts that weaken his faith ; then 
let him fix on some one fault of his own and mend 
it, and there will be one doubt the less in him, 
most likely. Or he cannot hope much, he is so 
mournful ; then let him be some worse sufferer's 
hope, and he will soon have heaven a dear 
thought with him. Only let a disciple live as 
Christ lived, and he will easily believe in living 
again, as Christ does. And in this way he may 
believe and almost know himself to be a living 
soul, as well as a body that can be touched. 



EUTHANASY. 395 

MARHAM. 

Yes, and let a man live the life of the spirit, 
and he will the more easily think of himself out- 
living the life of his body. 

AUBIN. 

Uncle, when a body becomes dust, there is 
not a grain of it that does not feel the laws of at- 
traction and gravitation. 

MARHAM. 

And so the soul is not to be feared for ; for if 
through God every particle of the body is drawn 
into use, then here are a thousand and a million 
instances of the certain way in which the soul 
must be drawn into life. 

ATJBIN. 

Yes, spirit to spirit we go, like to like, chil- 
dren to our Father, and godlike to God's self. 
In God I live, and move, and have my being ; 
and in him I shall weaken, and faint, and have 
my death. This is certain. But, indeed, I am 
always dying. No two days is my body the 
same, and no two minutes. By my breathing 
and my heart beating, my body is decaying and 
renewing every moment, my bones and even my 
eyes ; and it is not of my own will, but of God ; 
and so will my death be. My body will fail me 
only to leave me on the bosom of the Father, and 
to let me feel it more warmly than ever. Four 
bodies I have worn out ; and parting with this 



396 EUTHANASY. 

fifth one whole will be what will be called my 
death, but what will be really my life, — my new- 
ness of life. ^ 

MARHAM. 

Four bodies, one after another, you have had, 
and I ten or more. It is quite true, I suppose. 
And it is knowledge along with which embalming 
would not have become a practice, nor such 
tombs have been built as are in Lycia. 

ATTBIN. 

In a mausoleum or a grand tomb, so much is 
made of the body that one thinks of it too much, 
as though it had been the whole man. For my 
own body I would not have a leaden coffin, nor 
a tomb, nor a bricked grave ; but I would have 
it laid in the mould. For now it is hot and cold 
with the air, and well and ill with the weather, 
and the way the wind blows ; and so the way of 
nature let it go when I am gone, — ashes to 
ashes, and dust to dust. 

MARHAM. 

But, my dear Oliver 

ATTBIN. 

This frame of mine, — it is mine through eat- 
ing, and drinking, and breathing. This body 
of mine is out of wheat-fields and gardens ; it 
has come to me out of the ground, through the 
roots of herbs and trees, and in wholesome air 
from the forests of Norway, and the woody mid- 



EUTHANASY. 397 

die of Australia, and the banian-trees of Asia. 
There is in my veins what has been in a rainbow, 
perhaps, and very certainly what is from the rice- 
fields of the East Indies, and from the cane-brakes 
of the West Indies, and from out of the sea. 
Wonderful is the way our souls take flesh, and 
have their earthly being. It is well known to us, 
and so is not much to think of; else even life 
after death would be an easier thought than it is 
sometimes. 

MARHAM. 

We men may well hope to live again ; as we, 
and we alone, are let know what wonderful way 
we are living already. 

ATTBIN. 

It is better not to think so much of the bodies 
of the dead as the Egyptians did in embalming 
them, and as the Arabians did in making rock 
tombs for them, and as the Romans and other 
nations did in their various funereal customs. I 
would not wish to have my body laid under the 
floor of a church ; but in the earth let it be laid, 
and let the grass grow over it, and under that 
green mantle of her spreading, let Nature be free 
to take again into herself what has been my body ; 
into grass let it go, and up the roots, and into the 
green boughs of trees ; and in vapor let it rise 
from the ground, and into the clouds. 



EUTHANASY. 



CHAPTER XXXIV. 

O, though oft depressed and lonely, 

All my fears are laid aside, 
If I but remember only 

Such as these have lived and died ! 

Longfellow. 

AUBIN. 

I would not allow of any creed in the Church 
but the Bible ; and it should be heresy for one 
minister to use a word of it against another, ex- 
cept lovingly. O, but there would then be the 
peace of God among Christians, and very soon, 
perhaps, throughout the world ! 

MARHAM. 

In Eton church, under the arms of Sir Henry 
Wotton, it is said, in Latin, that underneath lies 
the author of the maxim, that a great flow of ar- 
gument is what runs to a disease in the Church. 
And then the reader is told to ask for his name 
elsewhere. 

AUBIN. 

His epitaph is not in such good taste as Wal- 
ton's life of him. How few good epitaphs there 
are ! I have seen somewhere, that on the tomb 
of one Count Algarotti, a philosopher at Pisa, is 
what he himself ordered should be cut, — Here 



EUTHANASY. 399 

lies Algarotti, but not all of him. A word or 
two more would have made it religious, and the 
best epitaph I know of. Of all the monumental 
inscriptions in Ely cathedral, there is not one that 
is good, I think ; but I did not read the more 
modern ones. 

MARHAM. 

You must have been very fastidious when you 
were there, Oliver ; for some good ones you 
must have seen, because so many dignitaries of 
the Church have always lived at Ely, — men of 
learning, and leisure, and often, no doubt, of po- 
etical, as well as devout feeling. And then, if I 
remember rightly, the tablets in the cathedral, and 
the inscriptions on tombs, are very numerous. 

AUBIN. 

So they are ; telling what stalls, rectories, 
deaneries, wives, children, learning, virtues, and 
years, the clergy of that rich soil have had ; and 
what have been the lives of several officers of 
the Right Honorable the Corporation of the Great 
Level of the Fens. 

MARHAM. 

Such persons are gratefully remembered in 
those marshes, I dare say. 

ATJBIN. 

So it would seem ; for an epitaph says that 
one deceased was very dearly remembered in 
Thorny Level, in the Isle of Ely, and in Deep- 



400 ETJTHANASY. 

ing Fens, in Lincolnshire, on account of his abil- 
ity in draining fenny and marsh lands. Another 
inscription says, — " Under this marble rests what 
there was of earth in Thomas Benyon, a clergy- 
man. Us survivors he taught how to die, on the 
twenty-fifth of February, in the year of our salva- 
tion sixteen hundred and eighty-nine." Now 
that is well, but it is followed by another line or 
two, not quite so good. I wonder why it is that 
funeral inscriptions are almost always so poorly 
written, so universally wanting in taste. 

MARHAM. 

It is nothing surprising, Oliver. For such in- 
scriptions are commonly written by men blind 
with tears, and with unsteady hands. And there 
is a distress that is not rare, and that quite dis- 
ables the mind for correct thinking, and especially 
for tasteful expression ; for taste comes of mental 
harmony ; and so there is no wonder it is wanting 
on tombstones, which are written on in a troubled 
spirit almost always. 

AUBIN. 

Uncle, you are right. And I am rather 
ashamed of myself for what gravestones I have 
smiled at ; for I was thoughtless ; as I ought to 
have known that epitaphs are the utterances of 
mourners, and are nearly all of them what would 
sound very natural, if heard from quivering lips, 
and with a stop here and there to keep a sob 



ETTTHANASY. 401 

\ 

down. I remember having seen, at Chowbent, 
a tablet to the memory of Dr. John Taylor, the 
divine, and from which he appears to have died 
in his sleep ; and this was what he used to wish 
might be his earthly end, — so the sexton of the 
chapel said 

MARHAM. 

Archbishop Leighton used to say, that if he 
might choose a place to die in, it should be an 
inn, so as to escape seeing his friends weep ; and 
he did die at 'the Bell, on a visit to London. 
He thought, by dying at an inn, he should feel 
the more like a pilgrim starting on the last part of 
his journey home. 

AUBIN. 

Spenser makes a wanderer be told, that death 
is itself an inn : — 

Death, is an equal doom 
To good and bad, the common inn of rest ; 
But after death the trial is to come, 
When best shall be to them that lived best. 

In his last illness, Pascal was troubled at his 
having more comforts than some other sufferers, 
and he wished to be carried to a hospital to die. 
He was religiously mistaken in wearing a girdle 
of spikes, — at least we will hope he was ; but 
without any doubt, he was a Christain in earnest. 
His pains were very great for a long while, but 
especially towards the end of his life ; but they 
26 



402 ETITHANASY. 

were what he could almost take his ease in, for, 
as he said to his sister, it was a happiness to him 
to be in such a state as to have nothing to do 
but to submit humbly and calmly. 

MAE.HAM. 

In the life of Dr. John Donne, he is said, his 
last fortnight, to have been so happy as to have 
had nothing to do but to die. 

AUBIN. 

The good men of his age died more deliberate- 
ly than is often done now. As soon as they 
knew themselves mortally ill, they finished their 
earthly business, sent for their friends to have a 
few last words with them, said, perhaps, how and 
where they would wish to be buried ; and then 
they could watch the great eclipse of life, and, 
with the darkness growing on them, could wonder 
and worship in quiet. 

MARHAM. 

Bishop Ken had even his shroud made in read- 
iness for his death, and he used to carry it about 
with him when he travelled ; and he put it on in 
his last illness, and died in it. 

AUBIN. 

His brother-in-law, Izaak Walton, was not so 
ascetic, but was quite as good a man, I think ; 
and I think would not have put a shroud on, but 
would rather have died in a meadow on a summer 
afternoon. I remember the last stanza of a poem 



EUTHANASY. 403 

which he made, as he sat on the grass under a 
sycamore-tree, and perhaps with a book on his 
knees, and a dog nigh him. He says, I could 
wish many things, but most, to — 

with my Bryan and a book. 
Loiter long days near Shawford orook ; — 
There sit by him and eat my meat ; 
There see the sun both rise and set ', 
There bid good morning to next day ; 
There meditate my time away ; 

§And angle on, and beg to have 
A quiet passage to*a welcome grave. 

Dear old Izaak ! By feeling those lines of his, 
one is better fit for death than by putting a 
shroud on. Walton thanked God for flowers, 
and showers, and meat, and content, and leisure 

kto go a-fishing. And I thank God for my know- 
ing of him ; for he has done me good by his 
books and cheerful piety. 
MAKHAM. 
Walter Pope and Izaak Walton would have 
liked one another, I should think. Walter Pope 
wrote a poem called the Old Man's Wish. I 
remember a verse of it : — 

May I govern my passions with absolute sway, 
Grow wiser and better as life wears away, 
Without gout or stone, by a gentle decay, — 
A gentle — a gentle — a gentle decay ! 

You would not think those lines had ever been 

Latin ; but they were once, and were translated 

by Vincent Bourne. 



404 



EUTHANASY. 



I like them, uncle, very much. And I like the 
way John Keats wished to die ; it is what he felt 
while he was listening to the nightingale once, 
and I suppose in the dark. 

Darkling I listen ; and for many a time 

I have been half in love with easeful Death, — 
Called him soft names in many a mused rhyme, 

To take into the air my quiet breath: 
Now more than ever seems it rich to die, 
To cease upon the midnight with no pain, 
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad 
In such an ecstasy. 

He died where there are more nightingales than 
there are here ; and we will hope he felt at the 
last what he said himself, that disappointments 
and anxieties are the subtile food on which to feel 
how quiet death is. Uncle, I will repeat to you 
the last lines of what is supposed to have been 
Nicoll's last poem : — 

Death is upon me, yet I fear not now. 

Open my chamber window, — let me look 
Upon the silent vales, the sunny glow 

That fills each alley, close, and copsewood nook. 
I know them, love them, mourn not them to leave ; 
Existence and its change my spirit cannot grieve ! 

Brave Robert Nicoll ! for when he was thus re- 
signed to death, he had a dear wife and a useful 
employment, and had just struggled through pov- 
erty up to the sight of a high and bright path in 
society. 



EUTHANASY. 405 

MARHAM. 

You read me, yesterday, a sonnet of Bryant's. 
I should like to hear it again. He wishes in it to 
be in his old age like the month October, and to 
die like it. 

ATJBIN. 

I will read it, uncle ; and this is a right day for 
it, is not it ? 

Ay, thou art welcome, heaven's delicious breath ! 
When woods begin to wear the crimson leaf, 
And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief, 

And the year smiles as it draws near its death : 

Wind of the sunny south ! 0, still delay 
In the gay woods, and in the golden air, 
Like to a good old age released from care, 

Journeying, in long serenity, away. 

In such a bright, late quiet, would that I 
Might wear out life like thee, 'mid bowers and brooks, 
And, dearer yet, the sunshine of kind looks, 

And music of kind voices ever nigh ; 

And when my last sand twinkles in the glass, 

Pass silently from men, as thou dost pass. 

Friends with him, — he would wish to have 
friends with him at the last. And so would I. 
He would wish to have kind voices within his 
hearing, and he is right ; for, O, the magic, the 
comfort, the unutterable, the tranquillizing pow r er, 
there is in the human voice ! I could wish my- 
self to be able to hear to the last, and never to 
be too 'weak to read. Some men have died with 
books in their hands ; and I think Petrarch did. 




406 ETJTHANASY. 



And Bailey says there is that to be written yet, 
which good old men shall read, and then, 

Closing the book, shall utter lowlily, — 
"Death! thou art infinite ; it is life is little." 

Ah ! some such book once I hoped to attempt 

writing. But the trial was not to be allowed me. 

MARHAM. 

Yes, Oliver, in part it was to be, and is. For 
no old man would have been more grateful for the 
book than I am for your talk. We have been 
talking about how some men have wished to die ; 
but how one would like to know what thoughts 
they had at the last, — those poets and philoso- 
phers that are dead ! 

AUBIN. 

A man like Tasso, for instance. 

MARHAM. 

Yes. 

AUBIN. 

Uncle, I have a piece by me that I wrote two 
years ago. It is called the Last Vision of Tasso. 
Towards the end of his life, the poet imagined 
himself visited by a spirit. His friend, the Mar- 
quis Manso, says he once heard a most lofty con- 
verse ; but, as it seemed to him, it was Torquato, 
at one time questioning, and at another replying. 
Though, as the listener says, the discourse was 
marvellously conducted, both in the sublimity of 
the topics, and in a certain unwonted manner of 






EUTHANASY. 



407 



talking, that exalted him into an ecstasy with 
hearing it. 

MARHAM. 

I should very much like to see what you have 
written, Oliver. For there is in it, I have no 
doubt, a good deal of what you have felt your- 
self. 



408 



EUTHANASY. 



CHAPTER XXXV. 

I can behold how merit lies in ashes ; 

How darkness, circled round with brightest glories, 

Its hollow head upreareth ; 

How in the wise man's room the fool is sitting, 

And virtue grieves all wretched and forsaken ; 

How hateful vice and vile demerit scoff her, 

And drive her trembling from the home of fortune ; 

The bad tree blossoming, and by lightning stricken 

The noble stem. This can I see, still hoping. 

And therefore will I hail the better future, 

Which in me lives, which I behold within me ; 

Thither to meet the young day will I hasten, 

Following the star to which my fate I 've trusted. 

When I the dust from off my feet have shaken, 

Then will I, too, soft branches round me waving, 

Lie down in happy quiet ! 

For One I know amid the stars is circling, 

And from their bright choir draweth strains harmonioua. 

F. von Zedlitz. 

TASSO. 

How the time has gone ! Still I have not 
been asleep ; at least, I think I have not. And 
yet now the light shines on the other side of the 
room. Ah, sun ! very beautiful sun ! Thou art 
not wearing old yet, but in thy light I have grown 
old before my time. No ! it was not in thy light 
that that happened to me, for it was in the dun- 
geon at Ferrara. Seven years ! Ay, they mad- 
den me to think of. And I was mad ; I was. 



EUTHANASY. 409 

But on which side of the hospital door I first 
grew frenzied I will not say, and I will try not to 
think. That God knows and will judge upon, — 
he will, he will. Nay, but I pray thee, God ! 
pardon the matter, and pardon me. For I will 
not ask thee to judge between me and him, — 
him that was my master. God forgive him the 
wrong he did me ! I do, — that is I hope I do. 
Only yesterday they gave me the sacrament, and 
twice since then I have been bitter against Alfon- 
so, and thought God would judge him. Ay, I 
should not have thought that without I had wish- 
ed it. May God, merciful and compassionate, 
pardon me ! I will confess this sin while it is 
fresh ; I will do it this evening. Why, it is 
nearly evening now ! Ah ! one, two, three, five 
swallows ! O you blessed creatures ! For you 
have the spring to come before you, and you 
bring the summer from behind you ; and with 
you it is always a glad earth. This very minute, 
you are flying up and down, and across the Ti- 
ber, and in and out of the Coliseum ; and some 
of you, the while, are resting yourselves on tree- 
tops and on churches. And you see the Capi- 
tol, and can fly to it so easily ! but now I shall 
lever reach it. I shall die without my crown. 
I have hoped for it for years, and now I shall 
miss of it by this sickness. Poor Torquato ! I 
did think once, that Virgil might perhaps have 



410 EUTHANASY. 

some time called thee brother. But that is past 
hope. For now that I could work, I am dying ; 
and now that I have just got the means of living, 
my lifetime is over : and now that the hand of 
tyranny is off me, the heavier hand of death is on 
me. O, what I might have been ! But that will 
soon be stifled in the dust of what I am about to 
be. Once I hoped before this to have ascended 
up on high, and been one of the greater lights in 
the firmament of thought for ever. But I have 
not risen, and I shall die out like a marsh-light 
extinguished in rain, — I, Torquato Tasso. I 
am heart-sick. I am not afraid of death ; but can 
I trust him quite ? Me, my uncles, my mother's 
brothers, have defrauded ; to me, friends have 
been false ; and me, my patron imprisoned. 
There have been times — I remember them — 
in which the face of every man was that of an 
enemy against me. I knew how people felt 
towards me ; and so, by my walking down the 
streets of Ferrara, my soul has been, as it were, 
pierced through and through with swords. Then 
I have been cheated by the very years of my life ; 
for fifty of them have spent out of my strength 
what ought to have been the health of threescore 
and ten. After whispering me all my life, and 
drawing me on to be her crowned poet, fame has 
deluded me. To me, my own faculties have not 
always been true. What is there has been true 






EUTHANASY. 411 

to me ? My relatives, my friends, the public, my 
patrons, fame, — yea! and my genius, — these 
all have been false to me. To me, all things in 
life have been treacherous ; and so why should 
death be true ? Of all things, why should only 
death be true to me ? Me it will be sure to 
mock, some way or other. But it may be, — it 
is, — it must be, — O, it is I myself am the mock- 
ery, and the falsehood, and the delusion. My 
mind is a mirror with a flaw in it, and things can- 
not be true to it ; they cannot look right in it. 
O the strangeness of my make ! Ah, well ! but 
there is this now. Life is bright to all other 
men, but to me it is gloomy, and always has 
been ; and so perhaps what is painful to others in 
death will be pleasant to me. And so it will 
be ; for I feel my spirit invited into death ; but 
other men have their souls shrink from it, ay, and 
from the very shadow and the thought of it. I 
knew it, — my soul is not as other souls are. 
But — Fool, fool, that I have been ! Again, 
again, — O this destiny of mine ! — again must I 
be an exception to the whole world, and for the 
worse. Others feel towards death as an enemy ; 
but it is to find him their friend. So says what 
must be believed. But I do not fear death, and 
so he will prove terrible to me. Fearful and 
false he will be to me. But I will not think it, 
and, indeed, I ought not, because it is not for me 



412 EUTHANASY. 

to think any thing positively, because I was phre- 
netic once, I know. And this misgiving about 
death may be mere frenzy, and I suspect it is ; 
— yes, and I will believe so, I will think so. I 
have been mad with misery once, and so God 
help me ! My experience of life has been horri- 
ble ; at least I think it has. And, indeed, I can- 
not be sure what it has been at all ; for this life 
is a half-sentence ; and the end of it is not to be 
read in this world, and so one cannot tell how it 
will read. My existence as yet, my deeds, my 
attempts, and my sufferings, are like the four half- 
lines that Virgil wrote against the palace of Au- 
gustus ; for it is what is to come after them that 
will make their meaning ; and what that is I can- 
not tell yet. Again, O holy and blessed appear- 
ance ! yet again before I die ! O, unworthy of 
it I am ! I am unworthy the sight. For only 
just now I have allowed my soul to cloud and 
darken with distrust, and my lips are still moist 
with the breath of words murmured in discontent 
about what my earthly lot has been, when indeed 
I know only what my life has seemed, while 
what it will prove to have been is not for me 
even to guess. 

SPIRIT. 

Often the yellowness of disease, and the white- 
ness of hunger, and the transparency of consump- 
tion, are the illuminated beginning of what reads 






EUTHANASY. 413 

on into a patent of immortality for man ; and 
there are many in heaven, for whom in that writ- 
ing the first is a red letter, having been colored- 
so with the blood of their martyrdom. 

TASSO. 

For my poet's work I have not had a hod- 
man's pay, — I have not, I have not. For 
many, many years, men gladdened themselves 
with my fancies, but not one of them ever re- 
joiced me. To houses without number my books 
have been like a theatre, in which the inhabitants 
have amused themselves at will ; and like a libra- 
ry, in which from time to time they have inform- 
ed themselves with thought and feeling ; and like 
a tower of refuge for them against enemies, for in 
reading my verses they have forgotten their woes. 
To many hundreds I have been all this ; but 
what have they been to me ? Neglect, envy, and 
malice. Gates do not shut out anxieties ; but I 
have shut out cares from many a man's mind 
many a time ; from many a prince's mind I have ; 
and often I have been let want the food and lodg- 
ing of a door-keeper. My miseries do not grieve 
me to remember. But that I could not be un- 
derstood, could not be loved, — it is this dis- 
tresses me. For till just now, they had all been 
ungrateful to me, — all my acquaintance, and my 
readers, and my countrymen. 



414 ETJTHANASY. 

SPIRIT. 

And have not they all been ungrateful to God ? 
Have you never thought of that, — never thought 
that in that respect you are standing towards the 
world in the same way as God ? And then, in 
this world, the greater a man is, the more he is 
misprized at first. Has it not been so nearly 
always ? Was it not so with the philosophers, 
and the poets, and the prophets of old time ? 

TASSO. 

Yes, yes ! I see them, the great ones. With 
the eyes of the spirit, I see them. And they 
pass in company before me, — the thinkers of 
the world, and the sufferers of it. And there is 
one seems to reproach me, and another pities me, 
because I have grudged entire brotherhood with 
them. That high and solemn fellowship of yours 
I have sinned against. O ye members of it, 
brothers of my spirit, pity me and pardon me ! 
pardon me, for I have been selfish. Round your 
brows there is a halo, and on mine I have hoped 
to wear the same ; while from your pathway of 
thorns on this earth I have shrunk and wished to 
turn aside. O ye glorified sufferers of this world, 
forgive me ! 

SPIRIT. 

And is not there known in this earth a name 
which is above every name, and have you not 
known how that name was first received ? And 



EUTHANASY. 415 

among men, always, has not God over all been 
most forgotten of all ? Your countrymen have 
been ungrateful to you for your bright and beau- 
tiful thoughts ; but have they, many of them, been 
grateful to God for sunshine and starlight ? You 
have been forgotten, Torquato, and so has the 
goodness of God been. But the Lord is slow to 
anger, and it is of his mercy the world is not con- 
sumed. 

TASSO. 

O wretch that I have been, and profane, to 
have breathed God's air and made it into mur- 
murs against his Providence ! Ah ! I should have 
borne with my fellow-men the better, had I 
thought of God's forbearing me. Yes, and now 
I see in life a man cannot be discontented, unless 
against God. O God ! pardon my thoughtless- 
ness, for it has been great and wicked. But 
indeed I could not always think aright ; for I was 
in want, in great want sometimes, and indeed 
often. 

SPIRIT. 

You have wanted bread in St. Anne's hospital 
often, and often in villages and towns. 

TASSO. 

Ah ! you know that, you do know that ! I am 
glad you do. It was hard with me ; was it not ? 

SPIRIT. 

Suffering is perfection to the Christian, and to 
the poet it is wisdom and glory. 



416 



EUTHANASY. 



TASSO. 

When I asked the world for bread, there was 
given me a stone, often. 

SPIRIT. 

So often, that out of those stones you have 
built for yourself a monument in the world on 
which to have your name inscribed for ever. 

TASSO. 

O, now for that assurance the blessed God be 
thanked ! for it means — does it not ? — that men 
hereafter will hold me dear. I do not care for 
honor now ; but I do wish to be loved, and it is 
what my soul craves. I have never known a 
man I do not long to have love me. But men 
have not known me often ; they have thought 
they have, but they have not, and so they have 
not liked me much. Though some have loved 
me without knowing me ; the poor have. Yes, 
they have been kind to me many times, — often, 
— always, almost. In the Apennines, I have 
heard them sing verses of mine more than once. 
There is not a cottage there, but I could wish 
my name to live in. For the people there have 
Jiard hands, and are brown in the face with the 
sun ; but they have love in their eyes, and they 
have voices that do not deceive. I have been 
often healed of my melancholy, for a time, by a 
peasant's hand laid on my shoulder, or by his 
wife's looking in my face. For once I was much 



EUTHANASY. 417 

with cottagers, dependent on them for food and 
shelter. That was when I was an outcast from 
court and city, and wandering over Italy afoot. 

my wasted manhood ! But it was by others 
it was wasted, not by me. Was my genius only 
my concern ? It was intrusted to me ; but it 
ought to have been fostered by others ; but it was 
not. And I, — I did what I could with it ; and 

1 could not do more. In anxiety about a meal 
from day to day, I spent thought which the 
whole world ought to have been the better for for 
ever. For years I had to walk in the darkness 
of poverty, and so I had to use like a lantern the 
genius that might have risen on all Italy like a 
sun, had I been treated rightly at that court of 
Ferrara. 

SPIRIT. 

By your ill usage there, the world is the worse, 
perhaps, but not you, Torquato. For do not you 
remember in your youth what your pride was as „ 
a courtier, and your ambition of place ? It was 
well for you that you failed of your wishes, or 
you would have become vain, and so your genius 
would have failed you. There was a time when 
you were near valuing men for their power more 
than their goodness, and for their honors more than 
for the way they got them. And so your love of 
man was changing into lust of grandeur. And as 
a poet, what would you have been without love ? 
27 



418 EUTHAXAST. 

and without love, what would you be as a Chris- 
tian, to die ? Your heart was hardening ; but 
sorrow softened it, and kept it soft ; and in the 
company of the poor, it was moulded anew and 
better. And so now your feelings are youthfully 
fresh, and poetically pure, and as strong as ever. 
It was well the court, and life at it, became hate- 
ful to you ; for what your feelings were becoming 
once, do you not remember now, Torquato ? 

TASSO. 

Remember ! remember ! I remember ! And 
it is a horror, all of it. My relatives, my ac- 
quaintances, and my patrons used me so ill for so 
long, that I have been sick of life. And there 
have been moments in which immortality has felt 
to me like a weary thought. God will forgive 
me this, because my spirit was diseased and 
could feel nothing healthily. For it was at a 
time when I wanted sympathy, and bread, and 
some little provision against old age ; and out of 
so many thousand persons, there was no one to 
offer me these things. 

SPIRIT. 

You suffered by that ; and so did your neglect- 
ers, and worse than yourself; for they missed 
becoming famous, and they failed of being Chris- 
tian by not helping you. A cup of cold water 
given to a Christian is not without a reward. 
But he that gets the love of a Christian poet wins 



EUTHANASY. 419 

more than a throne, and what kingdoms would 
not buy. 

TASSO. 

O God ! that some others had judged like that. 
And I should have been happy then. But she 
that was my life would still have died, — perhaps 
she would ; but that would not have frenzied me ; 
it would have made me a mourner all my days ; 
but that sorrow I should have felt like God's 
hand upon me, like a loving touch. But that her 
brother's tyranny debarred me of Leonora, and 
imprisoned me from the sight of her, — this was 
what maddened me. And I was mad ; for years 
I was. O those many lost years, the best of my 
life that ought to have been, and the brightest of 
my genius that should have been ! Why, O, 
why were they darkened so ? Are there many 
such minds as mine in Italy ? Is there now, or 
fifteen years since was there, another Torquato 
Tasso in Ferrara, or in Rome, in Florence, in 
Milan, or in Venice ? From among a million, I 
was to write the Jerusalem Delivered ; and from 
among a million, I was to be phrenetic. First 
one thing happened to me, and then another, and 
then I was hated, and then there was nobody I 
could trust ; and so I went mad. And it was at 
a time when the laurel was in leaf out of which 
my poet's crown might have been wreathed. 
But it was not to be. The laurel-leaves would 



420 EUTHANAST. 

have withered on my brow, it grew so hot. And 
it was as though a voice had come out against 
me, — " Frenzy for thee, Torquato, instead of 
fame." My mind might have been the home of 
splendors, and the birthplace of glories for men ; 
but it became confusion, a lurking-place for sus- 
picions, a horror of darkness, and an atmosphere 
of infinite melancholy. Like deadly mist off the 
Campagna, and more thickly than that, must my 
sins have -gone up to heaven, for them in their 
falling to have rained into my soul, as it were, 
fire and brimstone, burning, and blackening, and 
wasting it. Is it over yet ? is it all over ? Is 
the air clear between me and heaven ? and is 
there no cloud that may drench my soul in de- 
struction yet ! Me God made a poet ; and 
he lit up in my mind a light which other men 
have not ; and perhaps it was to light me to other 
duties than theirs ; and I have not gone after 
them. And so I have sinned worse than other 
men. And my miseries have been my punish- 
ment ; but not all of it, perhaps. There is more 
to come yet, and the heaviest part, perhaps. O 
my God ! my God ! then do not thou let me 
remember the past, but in mercy make me for- 
get it. 

SPIEIT. 

Was it for his crimes St. Paul suffered the 
loss of all things ? Was it under God's ven- 



EUTHANASY. 421 

geance Stephen died crushed and bleeding on the 
ground ? And the army of martyrs, — were they 
sinners above all other men ? 

TASSO. 

O, but I have been perverse ! Loving chas- 
tisements I have called the sufferings of others ; 
but I have been impatient under my own, as 
though they were heavy vengeance on me. But 
indeed my sorrows have been, some of them, 
what do not often happen. 

SPIRIT. 

And in your genius you have had the use of a 
light that is not often given in the world's dark- 
ness. , 

TASSO. 

It was losing that awhile which has been my 
greatest loss, and now it is my most painful re- 
membrance ; for I shudder at my mind's having 
darkened, perhaps, with its own sinfulness, or in 
God's anger, perhaps. 

SPIRIT. 

It was in neither ; but it was for good, — the 
good of others chiefly, but also for your own. It 
was for good ; and it was good. Over the eye- 
lids of her child asleep in the daylight, a mother 
draws the coverlet ; and it is in her love. But 
over the eyes of your waking understanding, when 
the veil was drawn, it was done in love that is 
infinite. Be you sure of it. A spectacle to men 



422 ETJTHANASY. 

were you ? You were, and such as no other man 
could have been. Was your madness a strange 
thing to hear of ? It was ; and men minded it ; 
and by thinking of it, they, some of them, felt 
anew the mysteriousness of their being. Irrelig- 
ious men heard of you, and were thrilled ; and 
they felt again those roots of the spirit of which 
the Godhead is the soil ; and so their souls re- 
vived. Does not the Lord say that all souls are 
his ? And so they are, and your soul shows it. 
And how souls do not live of themselves, but in 
God, has been more believingly felt by many, for 
their having seen darkness come and go across 
your mind, you yourself helpless against it. A 
star or two may be obscured, and men not heed 
it ; but over all Italy your mind was like a sun, 
and at the eclipse of it men thought of God. 

TASSO. 

Speak on, speak on. My God ! my God ! I 

thank thee. 

SPIRIT. 

You have suffered, Torquato, and greatly, and 
as few ever suffer. But the thought of that 
should calm, and not trouble you. For have you 
written nothing, said nothing, done nothing wrong? 
You can remember — cannot you ? — a hundred 
things, for the least of which you would be glad 
to suffer for days and weeks if only it might 
be undone, and be as though it had never been. 



EUTHANASY. 423 

But this is what could not be. And, indeed, 
like night, evil has its use in this world ; though 
alas for them by whom much of it comes ! Do 
not understand your great afflictions as meaning 
that you have been much worse than other men ; 
but rather than that, let your many sorrows as- 
sure you that you are not of those who have 
sinned against men more largely than suffered 
with them. 

TASSO. 

God ! against thee it was my ignorance that 
repined ; and thou wilt pardon it, wilt thou not ? 
O merciful One ! wilt thou not ? Nay, but it is 
of thy mercy there has been vouchsafed to me 
this knowledge of thy Providence. And this 
mercy of thine is an earnest of forgiveness : so I 
feel it. Lord ! my spirit yearns to thee now in 
trust and love. 

SPIRIT. 

And the more tenderly so for what your sor- 
rows have been. 

TASSO. 

O that I had felt years ago what I feel now ! 
And why did not I ? Why had I not this knowl- 
edge against the time of my affliction ? 

SPIRIT. 

You could not have had it against your suffer- 
ings, because it was to come through them. For 
there is a wisdom that in this world only comes 



424 EUTHANASY. 

with sorrow. And in virtue there is what only a 
mourner is so blessed as to reach. Of all the 
souls you have known, Torquato, have not the 
afflicted been the gentlest, and those that have 
sorrowed most been the most firmly believing ? 
And by whom have the best words in this world 
been spoken ? As you know, by those who had 
under foot the ashes of their living martyrdoms. 

TASSO. 

Glory to them ! for round them the world 
roared and glowed like a furnace of affliction ; 
and, asbestos-like, their souls were but whitened 
in the fire. And, my God ! glory to thee in the 
highest ! Glory to thee, with my whole glad 
heart ! My God ! my God ! how strong my 
spirit grows with thanking thee ! Now I can 
hope, now I can trust ; and I will, world without 
end, do with me what God will. 

SPIRIT. 

God does nothing but what the soul may trust in. 

TASSO. 

And what my soul shall trust in now, though 
the stars darken at it, and the moon turn like 
blood. But, indeed, worse appearances than 
these I have outlived, and worse, perhaps, than I 
shall ever know again. Abandoned of men I 
have been ; and I have almost feared I was aban- 
doned of God. My soul has craved for another 
soul to know it, and not been known ; I prayed 



EUTHANASY. 425 

for peace, long, long before it came to me ; and, 
flat on the ground, I have wept like an only and 
an orphan child, till, in my wretchedness, the cold 
earth under me has felt like the bosom of a dead 
mother. 

SPIRIT. 

But there was on you then the eye of your Fa- 
ther in heaven ; and now you will be the happier, 
the longer that eye rests on you ; for to feel it is 
to have the soul brighten with its light, and warm 
with its love, and gladden with the infinite blessed- 
ness that is in it. 

TASSO. 

O, it is all glorious with God, — the future is. 
And the past will not be so painful to me, now 
that you have pitied it. 

SPIRIT. 

Then it may be a blessed thing for you to think 
of; for, Torquato, God has pitied it. 

TASSO. 

O God ! Thou blessed, blessed God ! 

SPIRIT. 

In pain, man feels himself a soul ; and through 
agony, when rightly borne, he gets to know him- 
self akin to spiritual greatness. Out of the ground 
the food of the body is got with the sweat of the 
brow. And the bread that came down from 
heaven, — is it not man's through the blood of 
Jesus Christ ? 



426 EUTHANASY. 

TASSO. 

Through the precious blood of Christ. 

SPIRIT. 

And mortality never has immortal truth grow 
in it, but in pain. The spirit gains on the body 
in pain ; and it is in pain that men die out of this 
world into the other. The books of the prophe- 
cies are the treasures of the world now ; but of 
the prophets themselves, there was not one but 
was persecuted. There is not a noble feeling but 
began with some one who had died to the world 
in agony before his living in the spirit. And 
there is not a gentle thought but is tender with 
some one's sorrow. Yes ! and any time, on any 
matter, when the word of the Lord comes, seldom 
does it get spoken, but through the self-sacrifice 
of some believing soul. 

TASSO. 

O, you are a spirit from on high, and your 
words sublime me. And, as you said, these 
things of earth have been looked into from heav- 
en, and been pitied. 

SPIRIT. 

And been gloried in, too. Of the millions of 
souls that are ushered into this earth, the birth 
of every one is a joy in heaven, though with 
trembling, on account of its being made subject 
to vanity. But there is a warmer interest in 
those greater souls that are born, only one or two 






EIITHANASY. 427 

in a generation ; for their greatness is great ca- 
pacity, and that of woe as well as bliss, and of sin 
as well as goodness ; and then, in their wrestles 
with doubt and despair, they can be but little 
helped by others. Over one sinner ending his 
sinfulness, there is joy in heaven ; and there is 
more than that over one with whom mortality is 
ending, — some greater soul, that has been more 
greatly tried, — a man, after all his wrongs, with 
a heart of love, and eyes of faith, — and, besides, 
who has the peace of God in his mind, and on 
his lips words that men are the better for. You 
look doubtingly ; but it is of yourself that I have 
been speaking, Torquato. 

TASSO. 

Of me ! O, of me ! 

SPIRIT. 

Have you never considered what the way of 
Providence is with the souls of men, though you 
are yourself one of its greater agents ? Life is a 
lesson from God ; but the meaning of it is what 
men have to be taught by one another, the child 
by its parent, and the young man by his elders. 
Nature is God about you. It is a great truth ; 
but most men see only as much of it as is shown 
them. And who are they that show it ? The 
poets who are raised up from time to time. As, 
age after age, men have their understandings en- 
larged, there are those born who can speak the 



428 EUTHANASY. 

greater thoughts that are wanted, and who, by- 
saying what they feel themselves, make others 
feel more nobly. These are the interpreters of 
God to man ; and some of them have been known 
as theologians, and some as philosophers, and 
some as poets, and some as prophets. And, 
Torquato, you yourself are one among them. 
Yes, among souls, your spiritual estate is become 
like a principality and a power. 

TASSO. 

I become a power among spirits ! Then it is 
by suffering I have grown strong. And God be 
thanked I did suffer. O ye years of agony ! By 
you I was set apart from among men ; but it was 
for my consecration. My baptism of fire ! bless- 
ed for ever and ever be the season of it ! What ! 
Do I — Can it be ? It is. Yes, it is you, Le- 
onora. My life, my love ! Your hand, Leono- 
ra ; give me your hand. O, I cannot feel it ! 
But your presence I do feel ; into my soul I feel 
it, — and so strangely, so blessedly ! But why 
have not I known you before, though always my 
spirit has trembled in me ? Tell me, dearest Le- 
onora, why have not I known you sooner ? 

SPIRIT. 

You would not have known me now, but for 
your greater faith. The more God is believed 
in, the better his ministers are known. You have 
understood pain and misfortune as having been 



EUTHANASY. 429 

sent to you from God ; and so all other messen- 
gers are easy for you to recognize. And so it is 
that I have been known to you, Torquato, — my 
Torquato. 

TASSO. 

Gone ! She is gone ; and how suddenly ! 
Gone into heaven she is, for I saw her enter ; and 
as she went in, she smiled and pointed with her 
hand. And as I looked, I saw spirits standing 
together, — cherubim and seraphim, the spirits 
of love and of understanding, — and some with 
palms in their hands, like martyrs. And there 
was one like Dante ; and still his look is thought- 
ful, but happy also, and like the face of one who 
sees into some mystery of God, how joyful it is. 
The brightness in which those spirits stood to- 
gether was like twilight to the infinite splendor 
beyond. It was as though they were waiting 
there for some soul freshly coming out of this 
dark earth. And it was for me perhaps, — O, 
perhaps for me ! Come over me, death ! thou 
delicious change ! For thou art immortality, and 
heaven, and sight of Leonora. Ay, she, — O, 
she has gone through this change that is changing 
me ! And through her, death is grown sweet ; 
for it is to where she is that my spirit is being 
drawn. Ah, Leonora ! I do not see her. But 
she is in God, and so am I, and my death will be 
through God. Yes ! blessed be the God who is 



430 EUTHANASY. 

in her, and in me, and in our love for one anoth- 
er ! He is in all things, and in death. And so, 
as the eyes of a believer open, all things grow 
beautiful, very beautiful, and death becomes di- 
vine. 



EUTHANASY. 431 



CHAPTER XXXVI. 

" O dreary life ! " we cry, " O dreary life ! " 

And still the generations of the birds 

Sing through our sighing, and the flocks and herds 

Serenely live while we are keeping strife 

With Heaven's true purpose in us, as a knife 

Against which we may struggle. Ocean girds 

Unslackened the dry land : savannah swards 

Un weary sweep : hills watch, unworn ; and rife, 

Meek leaves drop yearly from the forest-trees, 

To show above the unwasted stars that pass 

In their old glory. O thou God of old ! 

Grant me some smaller grace than comes to these ; — 

But so much patience as a blade of grass 

Grows by, contented, through the heat and cold. 

E. B. Browning. 

AUBIN. 

O this westerly wind and sunshine ! How 
the white clouds drive, and the poplar-leaves 
glance and rustle ! Every breath is health this 
morning. So lofty and so blue the sky is, and 
such fresh thoughts one has in looking up at it. 
It is poetry and religion to be in the open air 
to-day ; is it not ? It is as though God were 
abroad. What am I saying ? As though the 
Divinity were not omnipresent, and present al- 
ways and everywhere alike ! I mean, this morn- 
ing feels as Eden may have felt, when, in the 
cool of the day, Adam became sensible of the 
Lord God's presence among the trees. 



432 ETJTHANASY. 

MARHAM. 

It is a very pleasant morning. I looked for 
you in the garden, Oliver. 

ATJBIN. 

In autumn I do not much like the sight of a 
garden. 

MARHAM. 

It is melancholy ; it certainly is. 

ATJBIN. 

The melancholy of the woods I like ; but in 
the blighted prettiness of a garden there is no 
promise of a revival. But the woods look so 
grandly in decay, that it is as though they knew 
of their being to be green again. So when I 
saw how the dahlias were blackened with the 
frost, and how one flower hung its head, and 
another was dropped on to the ground, I came 
through the garden, and I have been sitting in the 
field here and meditating. 

MARHAM. 

What about ? 

AUBIN. 

Sit on the bench here, and I will tell you, 
uncle. But I must remember first, which I do 
not think I can very well. 

MARHAM. 

O, you have been dreaming, Oliver ; and 
pleasantly, I hope. 

AUBIN. 

No, I have not been dreaming, but only feel- 



EUTHANASY. 433 

ing. I have been feeling like a portion of the 
scene about me, and as though my being were 
blended with that of the trees and the fields ; so 
that the leaves fell as though through my spirit ; 
and it was not as though I heard with my ears 
the robin sing, bur as though he sung within me. 
And I felt just as the trees and hedges and grass 
might feel together, if they could know of their 
life's subsiding into a wintry pause. 

MARHAM. 

Yellow, and then naked, and then as green 
again as ever ! I ought not to have seen this in 
the woods seventy times, without myself growing 
old the more cheerfully. It is a day for think- 
ing, this is ; and every autumn, for a few days, 
it is as though there were a power in the air 
making us be thoughtful. 

ATJBIN. 

The spirit of the season is on us, and it is 
as though from every thing about us we were 
whispered, " Now know yourselves." And a 
very seasonable warning it is, after the content- 
ment that summer has given us, in health, and 
warmth, and plenty, and light. Summer would 
make us self-sufficient ; but autumn says to us, 
that we are mortal : very mildly she speaks ; but 
if she is not minded, then the voice of winter is 
the more terrific, when he comes roaring out of 
the north. And if a man dies at the coming of 
28 



434 EUTHAXASY. 

winter, he dies the more mournful if he has not 
talked quietly with the autumn just gone. 

MAEHAM. 

Poor man ! But we do not any of us feel as 
we ought, that here we have no continuing city. 

AUBIW. 

Except on a day like this. 

MAEHAM. 

Ay, this is an old man's day. 

AUBIX. 

And an invalid's. 

MAEHAM. 

The leaves are fading about us, and so the 
more submissively do we ourselves fade as a 
leaf. 

AUBIN. 

Yes, our feelings are soothed by nature about 
us ; and then, as soon as they are calmed, they 
grow hopeful of themselves, and our walk among 
the dead leaves becomes triumphant, and we say 
that we know that our Redeemer lives. 

MAEHA3I. 

Among the works of God our feelings get 
soothed, and grow prophetic of immortality ; 
but not so among the works of men, not so in 
towns. In a town every thing is so noisy and 
bustling ; and it is as though there were not much 
thought in it fit for an old man to have, and not 
much feeling about it that he can well share in. 



ETJTHANAST. 435 

AUBIN. 

Yet men grow old in towns, and faster than in 
the country, perhaps. And in a large city, the 
clock never strikes twice in the hearing of the 
same population ; for within the hour, a child has 
been born and some soul has been taken. O, in 
the sight of God who sees it all, how the popula- 
tion of a city must be ever changing ! In one 
home there is a babe just born, and in the next 
house is stretched the cold length of a corpse. 
Always there is one generation going, and another 
coming. So that in a -city the inhabitants may 
be as many as ever, but they are never the same, 
even for a few hours. Year by year, and hour 
by hour, the population renews itself ; the son in 
the place of the father, and youth out of decay. 
Now, in an aged heart, is there no sympathy with 
this ? Nay, in this life of a city, ever fresh and 
strong, is not there something like the immortality 
of the soul ? is not there what shows how the 
inward spirit may renew itself through the very 
perishing of the outward form ? For in some 
cities, energy, wisdom, frankness, friendliness, 
and little peculiarities of mind, are the same from 
age to age, while the men, and the buildings, and 
the streets, are changing every day. 

MARHAM. 

Your faith is like an evergreen, for it is always 
so fresh ; and in the smoke of a city it does not 
fail, but even there it smells of the country. 



436 EUTHANASY. 






AUBIN. 

Why, uncle, you are quite figurative. 

MARHAM. 

Am I, Oliver, am I ? Well, then, more ex- 
actly, your faith seems to me like ivy, which not 
only mantles human homes and keeps them 
warm, and makes them beautiful, but which 
climbs round old castles, and lives on their walls, 
making it seem as though the very stones are 
not so dead but that life is to be had out of them. 

AUBIN. 

Well, uncle, well ! 

MARHAM. 

Ivy is the beauty of old ruins ; and your faith 
is not unlike it, for it springs up so strongly from 
amidst fallen hopes. But just now you said you 
did not like the sight of a garden in autumn ; why 
do not you ? 

AUBIN. 

Because it is only melancholy. For within 
the fence of a garden, decay is not wide enough 
to be sublime. But in the fields and woods, it is. 
There, decay is so vast as to be grand. And 
at any sublime sight, the soul feels herself immor- 
tal. For whether purely, or justly, or kindly, or 
devoutly, the more we feel, the more certainly 
immortal we feel. And in such experiences 
there is what is worth regard, ay, and thanks- 
giving, — special thanks to God. For often our 



ETJTHANASY. 437 

holiest efforts are discouraged ; and while making 
some of our loftiest attempts, it is as though we 
were spoken to by God ; and as though he said 
to us, " Fear not ; for it is into my bosom you 
are striving ; be nothing chilled." And then, for 
a ^ew moments, there is the warmth of immortal- 
ity about our souls. 

MARHAM. 

So that we feel best what we are to be, when 
we are what we ought to be. A gust of wind ! 
Down come the leaves ! 

Like leaves on trees the race of man is found, 
Now green in youth, now withering on the ground. 
So generations in their course decay, 
So perish these, when those have passed away. 

And long, long ago perished Homer and his lis- 
teners. 

ATJBIN. 

Perished ? Not he ! For, to our knowledge, 
the very words of his mouth are living. And his 
Iliad is brotherhood for Homer with men of all 
nations and times. 

MARHAM. 

Ay, and with ourselves. The leaves fall about 
us just as he heard them fall ; and the same 
thoughts come into our minds as did into his with 
the sound ; and we think how, from the tree of 
life, human existences are for ever being loosened 
and shed like leaves. 




438 ETJTHANASY. 



AUBIN. 

How the air smells of dead leaves ! Decay, 
decay, everywhere decay ! All things, every- 
where, look exhausted. So that to-day feels like 
a day out of some Greek Olympiad, or as though 
it had been kept for us out of some Egyptian 
cycle, or Chaldean year. For all things do feel 
so old ! 

MARHAM. 

To you, do they, Oliver ? It is the melan- 
choly of the season, and the reverie that comes 
of the warm, still day. You had been sitting here 
some time when I found you. What had you 
been thinking of ? Your thoughts were 

AUBIN. 

* They were with the men of old time, with the 
population of Nineveh and Babylon, and the 
builders of the Pyramids, and the dwellers of 
Enoch, the first city. I have been thinking how 
this earth has been sailed upon by the Phoenicians, 
been travelled about by Abraham and his camels, 
been traversed and fought on by Roman armies, 
been swept over by Goths and Huns from the 
North, and always from east to west been the 
pathway of civilization. 

MARHAM. 

It is a curious thought, what this earth has 
been in different ages of it, — the pasture-ground 
of the patriarchs, the quarry of Egyptian builders, 
and the battle-field of the Romans. 



EUTHANASY. 

AUBIN. 

Once this earth was the floor of the bridal 
bower of Adam and Eve, and many nights that 
was all it was to all mankind. But now it is the 
cornfield, and the meadow, and the garden, and 
the hearth of many million families. And it is 
become besides the graveyard of nations. Grave- 
yard, did I say ? Well, so it is ; and it is the 
birthplace of souls as well. 

MARHAM. 

So it is ; so it is ! Yes, it is ! I am wonder- 
ing what it is, Oliver, that makes what you say be 
so very persuasive of an hereafter. I cannot tell 
whether it is your voice, or what it is. 

AUBIN. 

Uncle, we will thank God that — But come 
how it may — Dear uncle, what I mean is, that 
* into a mind not superstitious, whatever way faith 
comes, it cannot but come rightly. And I would 
say this ; that there is a state of mind — and I 
think it is a reasonable and a right state of mind 
— in which nearly every human circumstance is 
suggestive of immortality, — even those matters, 
I mean, that are thought the gloomiest. And so 
the universality of death is to me the certainty of 
life after it. 

MARKAM. 

But from some poets one might learn that the 
uniformity of death is the frightfulness of it. 



440 EUTHANAST. 



AUBIN. 

Ay, death makes no exceptions. Righteous- 
ness is cut down uncrowned ; honesty perishes 
without having proved the best policy ; men that 
called on God die unanswered ; and many a dis- 
ciple dies, with many a Christian promise not 
kept to him. Now these are the things that make 
existence feel unfinished at death. And so it is 
that many things that are untoward in this life 
point toward another. 

MARHAM. 

They do ; so they do. Down come the leaves 
again ! O, what a shower of them ! 

AUBIN. 

And so, because we men fall like them, we 
cannot rot like them. Good men die as early as 
the bad ; and if one bad man dies the sooner for 
his vice, there is a good man dies the earlier for 
his virtue, for his self-denial, and his poverty ; 
for poverty is not the less killing for having been 
nobly incurred. Good and bad look alike in 
death, and so death itself cannot be what it looks. 

MARHAM. 

If death makes good and bad be alike, then it 
is only a seeming, or else for a very little while ; 
that is your meaning, is not it ? 

AUBIN. 

Death is not- what it looks ; cannot be and 
must not be believed so. 



EUTHANASY. 441 

MARHAM. 

Cannot be and must not be ! And saying so, 
do we know what we do say ? Because death is 
God's causing. And as regards Providence, 
what must or must not be is not for man to say. 

AUBIN. 

Out of his self-will it is not. As to death, man 
cannot speak out of his own knowledge ; but he 
can and may out of the spirit of God. For in 
good men, the Spirit itself does bear witness with 
their spirits. 

MARHAM. 

In the saints of God it does. 

AUBIN. 

And in all disciples, according as they are more 
or less Christian. In yourself, uncle, there is 
the witness of the Spirit : there is, I know, for 
sometimes I hear it speaking in your voice. Un- 
cle, there are persons dead, about whom I have 
feelings which I dare not distrust. Once I was in 
the death-chamber of a sufferer for righteousness' 
sake, — a man that had died in his virtue. My 
feelings were of awe and triumph ; and while in 
the room, every breath was like inspiration in me, 
and I said, u I know that his Redeemer liveth." 

MARHAM. 

A friend of yours, was not he ? 

AUBIN. 

Yes, uncle. The day he was buried was just 



442 ETJTHANASY. 

such a day as this. He was buried under an 
elm-tree, and the leaves fell on to the coffin and 
into the grave softly, and so fast ! It was as 
though nature were grieving over him. And, 
indeed, he was a man whose love the very trees 
might miss. For in his eyes they were more than 
wood and leaves ; and what Moses saw in one 
bush, he saw something of in every forest and 
shrub. And for him, there was not a tree but 
had burning in it the presence of God. 

MARRAM. 

That manner of sight I should be sure he had 
from you. A good man, a very good man, he 
was ; so I have heard you say. 

AUBIN. 

And so he was : and he died in his goodness, 
and almost through it. And at his grave-side, 
my thoughts asked, ' ' Why was this ? for cannot 
goodness be so good as that none should be the 
worse for it any way ? " There was no answer 
made me but silence ; though for a thinker that is 
enough. And as I turned away from the grave, 
there was in me what was like the Divine voice 
asking, " About what I am designing to do with 
you mortals, why art thou doubtful ? for hast thou 
not known me ? " And then I said to myself, 
" Ay, why at all do I doubt God ? For justice 
and goodness in me are his inspiration, and they 
prophesy of what his Providence will do. Yes, 



EUTHANASY. 443 

and God will be better than my goodness, and so 
my friend will prove happier than my hopes." 
And so I grew cheerful, and left him 

• Where his fathers sleep in their hillocks green. 

.* 

A beautiful line, is not it ? It is the Swedish 

Tegner's. 

MARHAM. 

And you have no exception to make to it ; 
have not you ? I have none myself. But always 
you will have it, that the real man is what no 
graveyard ever gets ; for you so earnestly distin- 
guish between body and soul. But, indeed, it is 
a very forcible line, and you may well like it. 

ATJBIN. 

It makes one feel as though in the grave there 
were sleepers, but not dead bodies ; and as though 
the earth were warm about them, and conscious 
of having them lie in her bosom. 

MARHAM. 

Mother-earth ! That fond phrase of the 
Greeks ! Mother-earth ! 

ATJBIN. 

Ay ! and cannot one imagine her crying to the 
Father of spirits, for pity on the dead bodies in 
her bosom, — children that have lost their breath, 
but her children still ? And now if such a voice 
from earth to heaven could reasonably be, then 
always it is as though it really were crying. And 



444 EUTHANASY. 

there is in the mind of God the feeling that such 
a cry would make ; for God not only answers 
prayer, but anticipates it. So that, from among 
her sister planets, whatever this earth could right- 
ly pray for for,her children, already God is grant- 
ing them, or else he is intending. 

MARHAM. 

My prayer is pure ; O earth, cover not thou 
my blood ! — So Job says, and then begs the 
earth not to silence his cry. In the Scriptures 
there are many passages which are as though the 
earth could think and feel. 

AUBIN. 

And as though she could speak. And, O, if 
she could, if she could ! And if she did, for all 
the sufferers in her ! If only men's sighs lived on 
the air, we could not bear the sound. But it is 
as though God did hear what man would not bear 
to hear ; for to his nature it is possible, and to 
his almightiness it would be endurable, and in 
the ear of his foreknowledge it would be a sub- 
lime sound : for as he listens from everlasting to 
everlasting, it is as though voices that are anguish 
one moment are crying aloud with all angels the 
next. But, indeed, with God, past, present, and 
future are one ; and to his eyes, in the sowing of 
tears, there is ripe at once the golden harvest of 



EUTHANASY. 445 

MARHAM. 

Ay, we will think of what our destiny looks to 
God ; and that shall comfort us. 

AUBIN. 

It ought to. And then we are members of a 
family. And so we will think what the human 
race must be in the eyes of God, — dying, dying, 
dying everywhere, — spirits that have called upon 
him, souls that have talked with him, men that 
have felt themselves his children. And in death 
do they all dissipate into nothing ? About this 
earth are stretched the arms of God ; and as he 
clasps it to himself, is it only an urn filling with 
human dust ? O, no ! God is infinite, and there 
must be infinity in every purpose of his ; and man 
is the only creature through whom that infinity 
can be answered in this world. A world made 
for nothing ! That is not to be thought of. And 
made for nothing it will have been, without man 
is immortal. In all probability, and in all cer- 
tainty, this earth will perish, and so will every 
daisy, and oak-tree, and animal, and bird, and 
fish ; and all will be as though this world had never 
been, unless there is a survivorship of souls. 

MARHAM. 

And that there will be. Blessed be God ! 

AUBIN. 

Ay, and through our souls, through what we 
have had to do with it, through what it has been 



446 EUTHANASY. 

to us, through our memories, the earth itself is 
eternal, and so, again, has not been made in vain. 
Either this world is a folly, or man is immortal. 
Man's future life is the wisdom of the universe ; 
and so doubt it we must not, and we cannot. 

MARHAM. 

Oliver, dear Oliver, your words are too posi- 
tive. I do not mean that they are not most bless- 
edly true. But perhaps, as to what the Divine 
purpose in the world must be, we should not be 
confident, but only confidently trustful. 

AUBIN. 

Uncle, you are right. Still it is pleasant, — 
the way in which the end of the world points on 
to the immortality of man. 

MARHAM. 

So it is. 

AUBIN. 

So as for herself not to have been made in 
vain, the earth asks another life for men, and one 
to outlast her own. 

MARHAM. 

And it is theirs ; for it is promised them. 

AUBIN. 

So many things are such witnesses of human 
immortality ; even sin is, and in letters that are 
like red iron in the dark. Often into a sinner 
there is burnt what convinces him that his soul 
may be changed, but can never, never die. 



EUTHANASY. 447 

MARHAM. 

Awful, very awful proof of an hereafter ! and 
yet most of us can guess at it, out of our own ex- 
perience. 

AUBIN. 

So we can. In the very abasement of our na- 
ture, we are consciously immortal, and so we are 
in our highest moods. 

MARHAM. 

But in them we may be deceived ; for they are 
our proudest. 

AUBIN. 

I was thinking of those only that are our purest. 

MARHAM. 

Right. And it is certain that, whether visible 
or not, all souls must have in them foretokens of 
their infinite continuance. 

AUBIN. 

Especially towards death ; some souls, as it 
were, plainly going home, in going out of this 
world. And there are some who die, and are 
followed by their works, and not only by them, 
but by their righteous sufferings, — witnesses that 
cry aloud, along with the souls of the martyrs 
under the altar, " How long, O Lord, holy and 
true, dost thou not judge ? " But judgment there 
will be, and the day of it is appointed ; so we 
can be patient, and be earnest in getting ready 
for it. 



448 ET7THANASY. 

MAE.HABI. 

Oliver, what are those verses you repeated last 
night, when looking out of the window ? 

AUBIN. 

What I remember of a translation from Uhland. 
They are expressive of impatience for death ; and 
yet I like them. They are what an old man 
might well say, looking up at the stars on an au- 
tumn night, with the leaves falling about him. 

golden legends writ in the skies ! 

I turn towards you with longing soul, 
And list to the awful harmonies 

Of the spheres, as on they roll. 

O hlessed rest ! royal night ! 

Wherefore seemeth the time so long, 
Till I see yon stars in their fullest light, 

And list to their loudest song. 

In the day we do not see the stars, but night brings 
us in sight of them ; and that night of nights, the 
night of death, will carry us up to them, and 
through them, and beyond them, and into the 
bosom of the Father, as we may well believe. 

MARHAM. 

Amen ! amen ! 



EUTHANASY. 449 



CHAPTER XXXVII. 

And is this all that man can claim ? 
Is this our longing's final aim ? 
To be like all things round, — no more 
Than pebbles cast on Time's gray shore ? 

Can man no 1 more than beast aspire 
To know his being's awful Sire ? 
And, born and lost on Nature's breast, 
No blessing seek but there to rest ? 

John Sterling. 

MAK.HAM. 

I have been reading at the window here, and 
I think, Oliver, in two books at once, perhaps. 
For my eyes have been straying, now and then, 
from this book of grace to the book of nature, 
outside. And, Oliver, I have been thinking, that 
it is only from my reading in the Scriptures that I 
find myself encouraged to draw nigh to God. In 
the book of nature there is little I can read to 
encourage me ; or I should rather say, perhaps, 
there is very little encouragement there which I 
can read of myself. For I cannot doubt that to 
Jesus all nature was like the smile of God ; and 
to the Psalmist it would appear, sometimes, to 
have been like God become plain about them. 
But they are only the true children of God, on 
whom nature does not frown as well as smile. 
29 



450 ET7THAXASY. 

There have been times when almost I could have 
wondered, that, with the heavens to spread him- 
self through, God should care about having a 
human heart for his temple. Oliver, I cannot 
wonder that some men have felt their own noth- 
ingness so painfully, as to have had misgivings 
too strong for their faith sometimes. The noth- 
ingness of man before the vastness of nature, — 
it is only a wise faith that can bear it, with the 
weight with which it sometimes weighs on some 
minds. And there has been an unbelief, which 
has justified itself by asking scornfully what Da- 
vid would have asked with mingled feelings of 
humbleness, awe, and trust, — What is man, any 
man, that God should regard him, while there are 
stars shining in the heavens, and while there are 
the sun and moon of his making ? 

AUBIN. 

Uncle, the stars do not glorify God, except 
through the mind of man. The sun and moon 
praise God only with such rays as can enter the 
temple of a man's soul. 

MAEHAM. 

I do not understand you, Oliver ; at least, I 
think I do not. 

ATJBIN. 

There is no such thing as sound, outside of the 
ear. A noise is made by the air being made to 
vibrate ; but the vibrations of the air become 



EUTHANASY. 451 

sound only by their striking on the drum of the 
ear. 

MARHAM. 

Yes ; that is so, I suppose. 

AUBIN. 

And not in a bird's or a dog's, but only in a 
man's ear, is Handel's Messiah the sublime mu- 
sic which it is. 

MARHAM. 

Well, that is true. 

AUBIN. 

And now what was the world before it could 
shape itself in the intelligent mind of man ? And 
before there was any ear at all, what was the 
world, all round ? what else but silence ? Brooks 
ran on noiseless beds, and rivers went over noise- 
less falls, and seas ebbed and flowed in silence. 
Breezes played without a whisper ; and winds, 
high winds, blew over plains and through forests, 
and not a sound did they make. The world was 
a silent world, before the ear was made for hear- 
ing. And over the earth there was no beauty, till 
the human eye opened on it. 

MARHAM. 

Do you mean, in the same way as music is not 
music, except in a human ear ? 

AUBIN. 

Yes, and for the same reason as the world was 
a silent world before the ear was fashioned for the 



452 EUTHANASY. 

air to vibrate on. And in this way it is only- 
through man that the stars glorify God. The sun 
and moon praise God through me. My soul is 
the priest that nature worships through. The 
mountains are dumb, till what feelings they make 
in me speak out. The valleys rejoice before 
God, only through what joy they make me glad 
with. And the roar of the sea is a deep-toned 
anthem, only while my soul is like a temple for it 
to sound through. 

MAKHAM. 

Yes ! now I understand you. 

AUBIN. 

The mountains are high, but they are not to 
belittle me : and they are to humble me, only the 
same wholesome way by which, myself, I feel all 
the lowlier for my own high thoughts. Nor are 
the stars to discourage me with their splendor ; as 
though, in their brightness, I could be minded of 
God only a little. For glorious as they are, they 
glorify God only by the thoughts they make me 
think of him. And it is by their rays entering 
into my worship that the sun and moon praise 
God. Day and night, in forests, and in the 
depths of the sea, over plains, on the sides of 
mountains, and up the regions of the air, God 
sees how good are all things of his making. But 
it is in the temple of man's soul, that he listens 
for how they worship him. 



EUTHANASY. 453 

MARHAM. 

And to the door of that temple comes the Holy 
Spirit, too, at frequent seasons. A high thought, 
Oliver, and yet not a proud one ! For it is very 
sad, and it is awful to think, how there are 
souls God listens for praises in, while worship in 
them there is none ; how, as temples, they are 
foul with sin, and dark with ignorance, and are 
profaned, day and night, with the hateful voice of 
folly speaking in them, and with the riot of the 
passions. 

ATJBIN. 

O, like the sacred quiet of a church is the 
peace which nature would make in the soul at 
times ! Out of woods and off lakes, and from 
over fields and meadows, there are thoughts, 
which might come into a man's mind, bright as 
angels out of heaven. Yes, and for all men there 
are high seasons, when influences from nature 
might enter the soul and make in it a holy pres- 
ence like that of angels met together, and a feel- 
ing of praise sublime and various, like that of 
assembled multitudes, and a fervency of love to 
God, that knows him draw nigh, O, so nigh to 
the soul it is in ! And now this worship, — if 
there is none in the soul, because it is wicked, 
then what a fearful thing its wickedness is ! Only 
through my mind can things round me glorify 
God ; and how dreadful a matter it is, if my mind 



454 ETTTHANASY. 

is so that it hardens itself against tender influences, 
and shuts itself against devout thoughts ! 

MARHAM. 

It is ; it is very dreadful. Of earth and water, 
of day and night, of the four seasons, of the sun 
and moon and stars, — of all these in their wor- 
ship I am a priest unto God. And if I am un- 
holy, if I am a faithless priest, then my sin, — my 
sin, — it is as wide as the world, and it reaches to 
the sky. But what is this which I am saying ? 
Sin is against God. And this is all awful consid- 
erations in one. 

ATTBIN. 

So it is. Yet, uncle, as you say, it is a dread- 
ful thought, — that of a man's so imbruting in 
heart, as to become insensible to the atmosphere 
of worship he is living in. 

MARHAM. 

Ah, Oliver, too much it is as though the world 
were only for our waking and sleeping in ; as 
though the earth existed only for us to gather, and 
store, and eat the fruits of it. 

ATTBIN. 

While really there are uses of it, which are not 
accomplished in our stomachs. 

MARHAM. 

Nor in our purses, Oliver, nor in the fleshly 
mind. 



EITTHANASY. 455 

ATJBIN. 

Nor altogether and at once in even the holiest 
soul. For the uses of the world will he unending. 

MARHAM. 

And so not a moment of our lives, nor one 
circumstance of them, is in vain. And this is 
great comfort to know of. What hours I spent 
at school still last on in my mind. What books 
I read many years ago still teach me, in some 
secret way. And my inclinations now bend the 
way they do, from my resolutions of many years 
ago. And as you said one day, Oliver, so it is. 
There is an eternal purpose in the world, which 
gets answered in us ourselves, — in the gratitude 
to God, which autumn strengthens in us ; in the 
reverence of the Creator, which sun, moon, and 
stars make in us ; in the awe, with which mortality 
pervades us ; and in the beauty, with which fair 
scenes imbue our souls. 

ATJBIN. 

My thought, uncle ; and you remember it as 
being so ! But the good expression of it, uncle, 
is your own, certainly. And it is as though the 
thought were fresh to me. But, uncle, I was 
meaning to say, that I think there are other uses 
of the world to us than wc know of. I think 
it is likely there are uses to us of the world that 
now is, which will begin to be felt, first one and 
then another, only in the world that is to come. 



456 EUTHANASY. 

MAEHAlff. 

Oliver, I am not sure that I understand you 
quite as clearly as I do commonly. 

AUBIX. 

Hereafter there will be uses of this world 
which will begin in us, through our memories. 
I think there is no day so poor, but it is enrich- 
ing me for ever. Hereafter it will prove, per- 
haps, that often, and in the simplest way, great 
wonders are entering my mind without my know- 
ing of them. 

MARHAM. 

I think, Oliver, you can explain your thought 
a little more clearly. 

AUBIIT. 

For the world about us, we shall be the bet- 
ter in more ways than we know of. Of the 
sounds we hear, and the objects we see, and 
of the matters that happen to us, even the com- 
monest, more will come than we suppose. 
Winter and summer, whether I am well or 
ill, of every day I live, there is an everlasting 
result in me ; and so there is of every action 
I do ; and so there is of every sensation I 
have, as I think. And I have so many thou- 
sand sensations in a day, and so many million in 
a year ! And never is one of them over for ever, 
as I think. Possibly I may feel them all over 
again ; and certainly there will be a something 



EUTHANASY. 457 

of them last on in me, for ever and ever. They 
will be a fountain of thought and feeling in me, 
for ages. 

MARHAM. 

Yes ; matters that are nothing to us now may 
be very wonderful to us as spirits. 

AUBIN. 

A rock may be itself but a mass of sandy 
grains, and yet be the fountain of a stream, 
bright to look at, and sweet to drink, and a hun- 
dred miles long in its course, and green and 
flowery all along its banks. And from the recol- 
lections growing in us, there is to be a stream of 
profit, I have no doubt. As a child, the feel- 
ing I had for my father was the beginning of 
what I felt towards God. And there is many 
a feeling made in us now by strangers to us, by 
our benefactors, and by our friends and relatives, 
that will hereafter and in infinity be the beginnings 
of new, and dear, and sublime emotions in us. 
And all objects about us are turning to spiritual 
seed in our minds, with our hearing and seeing 
them. 

MARHAM. 

And God makes the good soil of the human 
mind be infinitely and very variously fruitful. 
What seed is sown in it now will grow to a 
glorious harvest hereafter, underneath the new 
heavens. 



458 EUTHANASY. 

AUBIN. 

In some age or other, I shall say of some 
heavenly marvel, perhaps, " It is wonderful, 
wonderful ! And yet in the earth it was hinted 
to me, by the tones of the wind, and the way 
the clouds went over my head." I think, per- 
haps every sight in the world that now is may 
avail us in the world that is to come. On the 
golden floor of heaven, it may be the better for 
me that I have noticed even the worm's way in 
and out of the earth. It may be that some of 
our little observations now will open into wonder- 
ful knowledge hereafter. A plant comes out of 
the ground a little bud. It opens and grows, 
and blossoms, and seeds, and then dies. Now, 
there is much more in this than I know of 
yet ; much, very much more. Yes, yes ! If 
I knew all that is to be learned from a daisy 
even, I should be less of a stranger to God than I 
am. But I shall know it some time. All about 
me, tree unto tree is uttering speech, and flower 
unto flower is showing knowledge. But it is in 
a language that I do not well understand, but 
which I shall remember ; and so which I shall 
learn the whole meaning of hereafter. 

MARHAM. 

See, Oliver ! Look at yonder rose-bush, and 
see the flowers under it. Flowers, sweet flow- 
ers ! 



EUTHANASY. 459 

AUBIN. 

Gentle words they are, that come out of the 
earth ; and they tell us, out of the depths, the 
same thing the stars witness from the heights 
above, that everywhere life is beautiful. Flow- 
ers are pretty to look at now ; but hereafter 
they will be recollections, that will blossom in 
us again, and turn to seeds of new thought. For, 
as I think, there is nothing I have ever seen or 
heard which I shall not remember, — not a gnat 
in the sunshine, nor a water-fly on a pool, nor a 
swallow in the air. I have wondered over a lit- 
tle bird coming out of an egg-shell for a little 
life of four or five years, and over a sparrow as 
having been created to become the prey of some 
hawk, and over the way of a snail, as being made 
instinctive for it, and over the waking of a tor- 
pid worm in spring. Now, some time or other, 
these wonderings of mine will turn to strange, 
unearthly knowledge, and be the beginnings of 
fresh ways of feeling in me, and even perhaps 
of worship. 

MAEHAM. 

Yes, in our memories, there is more storing 
up than we can tell. And God is so wonderful, 
that what is nothing as a sight, or an event, may 
prove very precious as a recollection. Oliver. 
As you have been saying, yourself. 



460 ETTTHANASY. 



ATJBIN. 

Sometimes I remember little matters of ten 
and twenty years ago, how I plucked a flower 
somewhere, or how I heard a bird sing, or how 
I had a person speak to me. Perhaps I have 
not remembered these things once before ; yet the 
recollections of them come into my mind quite 
perfect ; and trivial as they are, and because 
they are so trivial, they are awful almost. For 
I cannot help feeling that, strange as this memory 
is, the purpose of it must be stranger still. The 
other day I recollected something, not only the 
action itself, and exactly how I did it, but how 
the air felt the while, the way the sun shone, 
and a hay-field smelled, how two or three trees 
stood, and how a foxglove looked that was nigh 
me. What thousands and millions of recollec- 
tions there must be in us ! And every now and 
then one of them becomes known to us ; and 
it shows us what spiritual depths are growing in 
us, what mines of memory. 

MAB.HAM. 

Even our idle words, whatever they may be, 
will have to be accounted for in the day of judg- 
ment. So, it is very likely, there are lasting on 
in our, memories all the sights we have ever seen, 
the actions we have ever done, the thoughts we 
have ever had, the words we have ever heard, 



EUTHANASY. 461 

the books we have ever read, and the prayers 
that ever we have prayed. 

ATJBIN. 

And, uncle, to the soul, all these recollections 
will be of use, some time or other, but in what 
way, % and to what strange purpose, we cannot 
tell, nor even guess. And no wonder ! For 
in their earliest days, what did the dwellers of 
the earth know of what uses were under the soil ? 
Nor would they have guessed them, even had 
they been shown what beds of clay, sand, stone, 
and coal were down under the green turf. They 
never would have thought of there being beautiful 
and comfortable dwellings to be shaped out of 
clay and stone; nor would they ever have thought 
of there being heat and light in a black mineral. 
And so, perhaps, even in our darker recollections, 
there will prove hereafter to be some pure and 
bright use ; and in the millions and millions of 
remembrances we are getting, there are strange 
joys preparing in us, and new manifestations of 
the understanding. 

MARHAM. 

And now, Oliver, I understand you. The 
more I think of life, the more wonderful it feels. 
But it is with God and immortality, it is won- 
derful. 

AUBIN. 

A plant draws earth and water into itself, and 



462 EUTHANASY. 

so blossoms. And out of this world our human 
nature is drawing to itself millions of experi- 
ences ; while it is above, in heaven, that it w T ill 
flower. 



EUTHANASY. 463 



CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

Two worlds are ours ; 't is only sin 

Forbids us to descry 
The mystic heaven and earth within, 

Plain as the sea and sky. 

Thou who hast given me eyes to see 

And love this sight so fair, 
Give me a heart to find out Thee, 

And read Thee everywhere. — Keblb. 

MARHAM. 

A fine evening, Oliver ; clear and bright is it ? 
I am glad of it. And now again it is evening ; 
indeed, it is night ; night again ! A little while 
ago I was not ; a very little while more and again 
I shall not be. In history a lifetime is a mere 
handbreadth, and before God it is as nothing. In 
the past, any age of it, where was I ? Where was 
I when Abraham departed out of Haran ? Where 
was I while young Plato listened to Socrates, and 
while the book of Ecclesiasticus was being med- 
itated ? and when Britain was first heard of at 
Rome, as an island beyond Gallia ? And in the 
year nineteen hundred where shall I be in this 
world ? Where shall I be when the great men of 
the future shall talk together ; and when they have 
been founded and have risen, — those better insti- 



464 ETJTHANASY. 

tutions, that are to be ? Ah, those stars ! they 
will be shining on, after I myself have been van- 
ished hence, long, long. Time lasts on, and on, 
and on. In its course the patriarchs went down ; 
so did the prophet Samuel, so did Babylon and 
Nineveh, so did Pericles and the other famous 
men of Athens, so did Julius Caesar, so did 
Rome, so did King Alfred, so did our fathers, so 
have all men done, so are we doing, and so all 
men will do. 

ATTBIN. 

We are born and we draw a breath ; some a 
longer, some a shorter breath. We are born, we 
draw just a breath, and then we die. 

MARHAM. 

The stars ! They shine on us, they shone in 
the past. They shone on David, and made him 
wonder ; and they shone on a woman he knew 
well, on Rizpah, as she sat, by night as well as 
day, all harvest-time, watching by seven dead 
bodies. Those stars shone on Rizpah, as she sat 
in sackcloth on a rock, with dead bodies nigh her. 
And now they shine on the bare rock. But they 
do shine still. Still those stars shine as they ever 
did. O, what a strange, strange feeling this makes 
in me ! 

AUBIN. 

It is the immortal instinct of our nature con- 
scious of a misgiving. It is the same as when 



EUTHANASY. 465 

we feel ourselves mortal, knowing the while of 
our immortality. 

MARHAM. 

With some poets, it would seem to have been 
as though their hearts had failed them at sight of 
the stars. 

AUBIN. 

The stars are not meant to wither us with their 
rays, but only to make us feel what a nothing our 
duration is to theirs, — what a nothing our bodily 
life is. And thus it is only spiritual life we can 
think of as being life at all. 

MARHAM. 

Yes, Oliver, it is only the life of the soul that 
is life at all. 

AUBIN. 

And then how does life feel evanescent ? to 
what faculty is it so ? This life is fleeting, sadly 
short to our feelings, — to the feeling of the in- 
finite, to the instinct of immortality, that is in us. 
Ah, then, there is, — there is in us an instinct of 
an hereafter. 

MARHAM. 

With a few words of faith, how the weak soul 
gets refreshed, as though with a breath of heaven- 
ly air ! Oliver, I think the world does not look 
the same to us that it did to the heathen. Nor 
can it now look the same to believers and to un- 
believers. For when a man is in Christ, the eyes 
30 



466 EUTHANASY. 

of his understanding are opened in another man- 
ner than is known to one without Christ in the 
world. And, Oliver, I must not forget our con- 
versation this afternoon ; and, indeed, I am not 
likely to do so soon. 

AUBIN. 

Uncle, you will excuse me ; but I was a little 
surprised, — no, not surprised, at what you were 
saying just now. But the strain of what you said 
was new to me from you, uncle. 

MARHAM. 

Why, to tell the truth, I have just now been 
musing over a chart of history, and talking with 
myself not wisely. The stars ! See them ! 
They are aloft in their places, so calm, so still, 
so pure ! The noises of this earth do not reach 
up one mile towards them. A little way from the 
surface of it, this earth is bounded all round with 
silence. Our clamors are ail shut in upon our- 
selves. 

AUBIN. 

How we triumph and murmur, and laugh and 
cry, here ! And all about objects that are so lit- 
tle judged of from on high. Patience, quiet, is 
what is preached to us from the stars. Our cries 
do not reach them, but their speech does extend 
to us. Their rays reach us. And what is the 
feeling they make in us ? It is calm and solemn ; 
and always it is the same. Though a man does 



EUTHANASY. 467 

not feel it, when he is fretful or angry. But let 
him cease from earthly anxieties, and then he will 
hear the language of the stars. At times the Son 
of God had not where to lay his head in this 
earth ; but he did not therefore believe himself 
the less heavenly. And let a man feel the quiet 
of the stars, their great and sublime calm ; then 
let him think of their solemn calm as being what 
his own soul calms with, and he will feel himself 
so highly related, that he will not mind much what 
house or what circumstances he has to live in here 
for a little while. 

MARHAM. 

Your understanding of what the stars say is 
quite as true as what I was saying just now, and 
far better to believe. Yet, Oliver, it is a strange, 
solemn consideration, that we must die, and those 
stars continue shining on for ages, and for long, 
long ages, perhaps. , 

AUBIN. 

And what of that ? Many a clock will outlast 
me for years, and perhaps for centuries ; and it 
will tell the hours, when myself I shall be told of, 
on earth, no more. They will shine on my grave, 
— the stars will ; but me myself they will not out- 
last. Sun, moon, and stars are the marvellous 
clockwork by which time has been indicated for 
me, and will continue to be. For the time of my 
death there is a look the sky will have, though I 



468 EUTHANASY. 

do not know what. But perhaps the sky will be 
blue, and with the sun quite bright in it ; or it will 
be cloudy, perhaps ; or, perhaps, all golden in the 
west ; or perhaps starry, the whole round of it. 
And if I am to die while the stars are shining, 
then there is a way getting ready, which they will 
all be standing in the while ; perhaps with one 
planet in the east, and another in the west, and a 
certain constellation at the zenith. And when 
every star has found his place, then I shall ascend 
into mine. 

MAKHAM. 

Going up from belief in God to the sight of 
him ! I think, Oliver, that perhaps God will be 
seen hereafter, through those same faculties by 
which now we believe in him. 

ATJBIN. 

Myself I quite think so, uncle. And in the 
same way I think that there are many of the ex- 
periences of common life which will turn here- 
after to immortal uses. 

MARHAM. 

As you made me understand so well this after- 
noon. In this world we live for the next, and in 
the next we shall be the better for having lived in 
this. Somehow, in the believing soul, the ends of 
the world that now is lengthen on into the beginnings 
of the world that is to come. Christ is in heaven, 
at the right hand of God, and he is in our hearts 



ETJTHANASY. 469 

the hope of glory. We live mortal lives for im- 
mortal good. And this is such a world, and really 
it is so mysterious, that there is not one of its 
commonest ways but perhaps is sublimer to walk 
on than we at all think. 

AUBIN. 

At night, when we walk about and see at all, 
it is by the light of other worlds. Though we 
do not often think of this. And it is the same in 
life. There is many a matter concerning us that 
is little thought of, but yet which is ours, as it 
were, from out of the infinite. Yes, our lives 
are to be felt as being very great even in their 
nothingness. 

MARHAM. 

And as you say, Oliver, they feel so mortal to 
us because ourselves we are not mortal at all, but 
immortal. 

AUBIN. 

Yes, and rightly thought of ; even our mortal 
lives are as wonderful as immortality. Is the next 
life a mystery ? So it is ; but then how myste- 
rious even now life is. Food is not all that a man 
lives by. There is some way by which food has 
to turn to strength in him ; and that way is some- 
thing else than his own will. J am hungry, I sit 
down to a meal, and I enjoy it. And the next 
day, from what I ate and drank for my pleasure, 
there is blood in my veins, and moisture on my 



470 EUTHANASY. 

skin, and new flesh making in all my limbs. And 
this is not my doing or willing. For I do not even 
know how my nails grow from under the skin of 
my fingers. I can well believe in my being to live 
hereafter ; how, indeed, I am to live I do not 
know ; but, then, neither do I know how I do 
live now. When I am asleep, my lungs keep 
breathing, my heart keeps beating, my stomach 
keeps digesting, and my whole body keeps making 
anew. And in the morning, when I look in the 
glass, it is as though I see myself a new creature ; 
and really, for the wonder of it, it is all the same 
as though another body had grown about me in 
my sleep. This living from day to day is aston- 
ishing when it is thought of ; and we are let feel 
the miracle of it, so, perhaps, that our being to 
live again may not be too wonderful for our 
belief. 

MARHAM. 

Yes, I think it may be so, Oliver. Myself, I 
have thought that I have believed the better in the 
life to come, for feeling how mysterious is the life 
that now is. 

AUBIN. 

Almost any right feeling about this present life 
helps to rectify our feelings about the future life. 
All our best moods feel immortal. Does ever a 
brave man lay down his life, and feel it merely a 
mortal one ? I think not. For the good soul in 



ETJTHANASY. 471 

him will not let itself be thought of so. A heart 
has only to be noble, and of itself it will fill with 
faith. No martyr ever went the way of duty and 
felt the shadow of death upon it. The shadow 
of death is darkest in the valley, which men walk 
in easily, and is never felt at all on a steep place, 
like Calvary. Truth is everlasting, and so is 
every lover of it ; and so he feels himself almost 
always. " To die is nothing to being false. I 
feel death like nothing at all ; and so it is nothing 
in itself most likely." In battle, let it be for his 
country that a man stands up ; and his brave, 
noble soul makes him feel that there is in him 
a life, that is no more to be touched by can- 
non-balls than God is, or than the kingdom of 
heaven is. 

MARHAM. 

Let us love God, and then of our being to live 
on in him we shall not doubt. It is our love of 
God that is the soul, the strength, of our faith in an 
hereafter. There are so many things that would 
seem against us and not for us, only that we love 
God ! So very many painful things ! 

AUBIN. 

Darkness is of use as well as daylight ; and so 
are the doubts that cloud our minds as well as the 
certainties that light them up. So many thousand 
things about us are painful to look at and know 



472 ETJTHANASY. 

for us, and is a feeling which it is wholesome for 
us to walk about in for a while. 

MARHAM. 

I think, Oliver, that the more one feels what 
this world is precisely, the surer one is of its be- 
ing to be explained in a way not known of yet, — 
a way that will justify want and agony even to 
goodness itself. And thus so many objects about 
us, that are sad to look at now, will turn in the 
future to recollections wonderful, and perhaps 
blessed, as you said this afternoon. Yes, Oliver, 
to the eyes of faith how all things change, and 
sad things look solemn, and dark things look 
brightening, and bright things look brighter ! And 
then, too, there are times, not those of our most 
virtuous moods certainly, when our best thoughts 
feel empty, and when events move us only to 
despair. 

ATJBIN. 

Just as a house is a home only to what do- 
mestic feeling is in a man, so very largely this 
world is God's world only to what godly feelings 
are in us. And it is only to my Christian feeling 
that the world feels 

MARHAM. 

What inspires you with courage, and hope, and 
trust ? 

ATTBIN. 

Yes, uncle. There have been times when to 



EUTHANASY. 473 

me nature has been meaningless ; and there have 
been men to whom it has been disheartening. 
And well I remember the time at which nature 
began in my eyes to grow good with the good- 
ness of God. It was like as when a white cloud 
grows golden with the rising sun. And now to 
my trustful, Christian heart, nature is so that 
whatever is in harmony with it I can be well con- 
tented to become, even though it might possibly 
prove to be nothing. In many a beautiful scene, 
on a summer's day, it is as though it were said to 
me, " Feel now how blessed are the Divine 
hands, into which it will be thine sometime to 
commend thy spirit." And now, to-night, is not 
it as though God had darkened the world for me 
to feel him the better in it ? And what are those 
stars but the thousand eyes of God's love watch- 
ing me ? And the soft west wind, — is it not 
what my soul might well go forth upon calmly and 
hopefully ? 

MAEHAM. 

The life of all things else is our life. 

AUBIN. 

And what the sun rises in and sets in, our souls 
may well be trusted to last on in. The morrow 
of the world is a purpose in the mind of God, 
and so is the great to-morrow of my soul. And 
I can be well contented to have my life subside 
on the bosom of him in whom the day died away 



474 EUTHANASY. 

this evening so beautifully, and in whom it will 
begin again in the morning so grandly. 

MARHAM. 

Almost all things encourage the faith of a 
thoughtful and believing mind. It is easy to be- 
lieve that the souls of the righteous will shine on 
through death, since they have, for the life of their 
lives, that God in whom sun and moon and stars 
last on through change, and eclipse, and ages. 

ATJBIN. 

My soul will live on in God, through death, 
like a thought that lasts on in the mind through 
sleep, and forgetfulness, and threescore years 
and ten perhaps. 

MARHAM. 

Yes, I live in God, and shall eternally. It is 
his hand upholds me now ; and death will be but 
an uplifting of me into his bosom. 



EUTHANASY. 475 



CHAPTER XXXIX. 

And may it not be hoped, that, placed by age 

In like removal, tranquil though severe, 

We are not so removed for utter loss, 

But for some favor, suited to our need ? 

What more than that the severing should confer 

Fresh power to commune with the invisible world, 

And hear the mighty stream of tendency 

Uttering, for elevation of our thought, 

A clear, sonorous voice, inaudible 

To the vast multitude, whose doom it ia 

To run the giddy round of vain delight, 

Or fret and labor on the plain below ? 

Wordsworth. 

MAEHAM. 

Very much I like it. But I am another man 
than I was when I was there thirty years ago. 
And the people there are almost all other than 
I used to know. The land slopes as it used to 
do, upwards to the brow of a hill, and down to- 
wards a brook. The brook runs on, stony at the 
bottom in one place, and gravelly in another ; 
and the grass alongside it is long and green, 
and with flowers in it. Prettily grow the fox- 
glove and the water-lily. And all day long, while 
the daisies are looking up at the sun, the brook 
flows on, and here and there it gurgles ; and so it 
does in the dark, all the night through, and while 



476 EUTHANASY. 

the daisies are shut. The water runs there, and 
the grass grows there, and the flowers blossom 
there, and smell there ; and the sun shines there, 
and midnight is dark there, and there all things 
are as they used to be. Only the men that were 
there once are not there now. 

AUBIN. 

And how did you feel ? You had old thoughts 
come back to you, and old feelings. How did 
life feel to you there ? 

MARHAM. ♦ 

Oliver, it felt to me there what it does to me 
too often, perhaps. What is it to live ? It is 
to grow older. It is to have more pain, or else 
more fear of pain. It is to have some friends 
grow cold, and others die. It is to learn more 
and more reasons, every year, for being willing 
to die. 

ATJBIN. 

So it is ; and not lamentably so either. For 
to live thoughtfully is to advance in life, and feel 
ourselves being laid hold of by the powers of 
the world to come. 

MARHAM. 

A grand phrase is that of St. Paul's. 

AUBIN. 

So it is. And, uncle, did not you feel more 
faith, as well as more resignation, when you found 
yourself an old man, where you used to live as 
a youth ? 



EUTHANASY. 477 

MATtHAM. 

I hope, I trust, I did feel myself better per- 
suaded of an hereafter than I was when I was a 
young man. But I cannot be sure how far the 
peace I felt there was that of the spirit, and not 
merely that of the fineness of the day. 

AIIBIN. 

Worthy of trust though ; however it may have 
been made in you, I think. 

MARHAM. 

Perhaps so. For I think there is a religious- 
ness in the calm of a beautiful day, and that it 
is what an irreligious man has no feeling of. 

AUBIN. 

A fine day is universal harmony. There is 
nothing out of place with the sunshine on it, 
and hardly any thing even of man's making but 
seems to stand right. And in the soft, warm, 
still air, all sounds are musical ; the screams and 
calls of children, the crowing of the cock, the 
singing of the lark, the chattering of the jay, the 
ring of the anvil as the smith works at it, the 
lowing of the cows in the meadow, and the caw- 
ing of the rooks high up in the air, the song of 
the wren in the hedge, the bark of the dog by 
his kennel, and the rattle on the distant railway. 
I have been in what I thought was an altogether 
ugly neighbourhood. But there came a fine day ; 
and it was just as though it were said to me, 



478 ETTTHANASY. 

u See now how easily beautiful all things are." 
And so when we feel ourselves immortal, then 
all things round us are right, stormy weather as 
well as spring-time, people that cannot under- 
stand us as well as those that do, hard things 
as well as pleasant things, sweet women and 
resolute men, children in their innocence, and 
bad men in their badness, as far at least as their 
badness is our trial. 

MABHAM. 

How is it, Oliver, that sometimes in misfor- 
tune an old man will sorrow more than he did 
in his youth, and yet his faith be as strong as it 
ever was ? 

AUBIN. 

I think, because, though sorrows do not often 
last on in us all through life, yet they may re- 
vive in us for a time. Indeed, the same misfor- 
tune is not the same trouble always. For when 
a young man mourns, it is for his one grief. 
But when an old man is frightened, it is with a 
fearfulness which has grown in him from the 
losses and bereavements and pains of a whole 
lifetime. When an old man weeps for any thing, 
a hundred old sorrows weep from his eyes, many 
an old friend lies dead before him, and many a 
piece of ill news sounds in bis ears afresh. But 
still in it all, if he is a Christian, he feels some- 
thing of the peace of God ; and, O, so sweetly 



ETJTHANASY. 479 

it feels ! And it is to him as though dead friends 
lay, one in one chamber, and another in another ; 
and as though one misfortune threatened him, and 
another mourned to him, only to make him feel 
the quiet of heaven, how great and sweet it is. 

MARHAM. 

How much Christianity has done for old age ! 
I think that, of thirty epithets the Romans used 
to describe old age with, there were only two or 
three but what were sad or contemptuous. But 
indeed it is hard even for a Christian not to feel 
rather sadly over old age, when it becomes de- 
cay of the faculties. An old man may remem- 
ber things of seventy years ago : yet still it is 
mortifying for him, when he finds himself begin- 
ning to forget little things of yesterday. Now, 
Oliver, what would you say to such a person ? 

AUBIN. 

You say, your memory fails you for common 
things. But now this is not a thing for you to 
grieve about. For why should you be remem- 
bering much more of the little things of this little 
life, when you are so nigh the great things of a 
life that will be infinite ? News, things that hap- 
pen daily, — these we are to know of, for the 
sake of the wisdom they help to make in us. 
But at fourscore years, a man is little the bet- 
ter for recollecting well the countless events of 
a day ; because whatever wisdom they can teach 



480 EUTHANASY. 



already. 



or inure him to, he must have learned already 
And so it is not so much memory that is failing 
with you, as the earthly purpose of it that is 
signifying itself fulfilled. 

MAKHAM. 

Thank you, Oliver. What you have said is 
ingenious, and I trust that it is true, for it is very 
comforting. 

ATJBIN. 

So many ways, tenderly and solemnly, does 
old age, as I think, suggest there being cer- 
tainly a blessed world to come. When old, a 
man loves God more than when young ; and 
loves him in a more childlike way, — loves him 
with more wonder, from greater depths, and up 
greater heights of thought. And this love of him- 
self will God draw back from ? Will he draw 
himself up into his immortality, and leave his 
human creature yearning after him in vain ? No ; 
he never will. This love, of his own making 
in the soul, will he withdraw from ? O, no ! 
And the many things that soften an old man's 
heart, — what are they, but God's way of making 
it love himself the better ! And in the failure 
of memory for the little things of to-day and 
yesterday, and in the weakening of such facul- 
ties as are more peculiarly earthly in their use, 
is not it as though God were loosening the 
soul for its freer coming to himself ? A flower 



EUTHANASY. 481 

dropping its leaves and turning to seed is very 
certainly predictive of a summer to come ; and 
just as certainly do very many of the circum- 
stances of an old man witness to what is to be 
his renewal hereafter. 

MARHAM. 

It is as having a Redeemer, that the old man 
now is so different from what he was among the 
heathen. In Latin writings, and, I think very 
likley, in Greek authors also, there is hardly a 
thing old age is likened to, but is what is pain- 
ful to think of. But, indeed, even in our modern, 
our Christian literature, I know (ew pleasant em- 
blems of the end of life. It is as though expe- 
rience and nature yielded none. And yet an 
old man needs the consolation of seeing his face 
made glorious in glorious mirrors. 

AUBIN. 

A good old age is a beautiful sight, and there 
is nothing earthly that is as noble, — in my eyes, 
at least. And so I have often thought. A ship 
is a fine object, when it comes up into a port, 
with all its sails set, and quite safely, from a long 
voyage. Many a thousand miles it has come, 
with the sun for guidance, and the sea for its 
path, and the winds for its speed. What might 
have been its grave, a thousand fathoms deep, 
has yielded it a ready way ; and winds that might 
have been its wreck, have been its service. It 
31 



482 EUTHANASY. 

has come from another meridian than ours ; it has 
come through day and night ; it has come by 
reefs and banks, that have been avoided, and past 
rocks, that have been watched for. Not a plank 
has started, nor one timber in it proved rotten. 
And now it comes like an answer to the prayers 
of many hearts, — a delight to the owner, a" joy 
to many a sailor's family, and a pleasure to all 
ashore, that see it. It has been steered over 
the ocean, and been piloted through dangers, 
and now it is safe. But more interesting still 
than this is a good life, as it approaches its three- 
score years and ten. It began in the century be- 
fore the present ; it has lasted on through storms 
and sunshine, and it has been guarded against 
many a rock, on which shipwreck of a good con- 
science might have been made. On the course 
it has taken, there has been the influence of 
Providence ; and it has been guided by Christ, 
that day-star from on high. Yes, old age is 
even a nobler sight than a ship completing a long, 
long voyage. On a summer's evening, the set- 
ting sun is grand to look at. In his morning 
beams, the birds awoke and sang, men rose for 
their work, and the world grew light. In his mid- 
day heat, wheat-fields grew yellower, and fruits 
were ripened, and a thousand natural purposes 
were answered, which we mortals do not know 
of. And in his light, at setting, all things seem 



EUTHANASY. 483 

to grow harmonious and solemn. But what is all 
this to the sight of a good life, in those years that 
go down into the grave ? In the early days of it, 
old events had their happening ; with the light of 
it, many a house has been brightened ; and under 
the good influence of it, souls have grown better, 
some of whom are now on high. And then the 
closing period of such a life, — how almost awful 
is the beauty of it ! From his setting, the sun 
will rise again to-morrow ; and he will shine on 
men and their work, and on children's children 
and their labors. But once finished, even a 
good life has no renewal in this world. It will 
begin again, but it will be in a new earth, and 
under new heavens. Yes, uncle, nobler than 
a ship safely ending a long voyage, and sublimer 
than the setting sun, is the old age of a just, a^d 
kind, and useful life. 



484 EUTHANASY. 



CHAPTER XL. 

With stammering lips and insufficient sound, 
I strive and struggle to deliver right 
That music of my nature, day and night, 
With dream and thought and feeling interwoven, 
And inly answering all the senses' round, 
With octaves of a mystic depth and height, 
Which step out grandly to the infinite, 
From the dark edges of the sensual ground. 

E. B. Browning. 

AUBIN. 

No doubt, there is in men a love of life, and so 
life is eternal with them, I believe. For God is 
too good ever to have made us love life, had he 
intended to have deprived us of it, ever. So 
I think. I have been told that it is because 
of my great love of life, that I am so greatly- 
persuaded of the signs which betoken that there 
is a life hereafter, to be entered upon from life 
here. But indeed I am not self-deceived, in this 
way. For I love life but little, as mere living ; 
and indeed not at all, I think. Only let me know 
that the end of all men is everlasting death, and 
any time I would go to my grave like going to 
bed for ever. I do not think I have ever known 
a moment I would not willingly have had be 
my last, might it have been so for ever. All 



EUTHANASY. 485 

through my life there has been no book so inter- 
esting to me, but I could have laid it down at any 
page;, no conversation so sweet, but I could have 
stopped in it at once ; no pleasure so great, but I 
could have turned from it any instant, and been 
quite willing to die, if it might have been for ever. 
And I say now, that if the coffin-lid were to hide 
me from the universe for ever, I could ask to 
have it made for me to-morrow. And at once I 
would have it made ; for I should like the sight 
of it, if under it thought was to torture me no 
more, and despair was to cease for ever. 

MARHAM. 

But now, through our Saviour, Jesus Christ, it 
is not despair which comes of loving life, but only 
more earnestness of faith. But perhaps, Oliver, 
it would be better if I could love this life less, and 
life immortal more. I love this life too much, I 
am afraid. 

AUBIN. 

I do not think you do, uncle ; and I do not 
think any man can, in a wise way. My little love 
of life is neither excellence nor merit in me. 
Chiefly it results from what my life has been : for 
never have my circumstances been what I have 
felt at home in. However, as a little child, I was 
singularly happy. And yet, at seven or eight 
years of age, I used to think of death often, es- 
pecially in the night. I used to think of it only 



486 EUTHANASY. 

as ending life ; still I looked towards it quietly 
and fondly almost. " Vanity of vanities, all is 
vanity." This was in my mind, at twelve years 
old, quite as mournfully as it is written in the book 
of Ecclesiastes. I was very fond of play ; un- 
usually so ; and yet in the midst of a game, some- 
times, something would ask me, as though in 
scorn and pity, " What worth in this is there ? " 
I do not now yearn for death ; but it is not be- 
cause I am in love with this life, but because I 
know now that death is not death, — is not so 
much an ending of life as a beginning of it again. 

I MARHAM. 

But, Oliver, you do not mean to say that you 
do not like living. 

AUBIN. 

O, no ! But as far as I do love life, it is more 
as thought than as pleasure. Indeed, for any en- 
joyment of it, I have never loved life. And so, 
whatever feeling I have of life as being to be im- 
mortal, I can trust to confidently ; at least, I can 
trust to it more reasonably than if I hoped to live 
again, only out of a mere love of enjoying myself. 
" It is for immortality thou art made " ; this is in 
me no voice of lust, nor of pride, no cry of my 
own making, but a voice so awful, at times, that, 
now and then, almost I could rather not know of it. 

B1ARHAM. 

Life, life is so dear ! It is to me, at least, and 



EUTHANASY. 487 

too much so, at times, I am afraid. Oliver, I 
wish I could feel more as you do about it. 

AUBIN. 

There is no occasion for your wishing that, my 
dear uncle. It is no virtue that loves life not at 
all. Myself I should have loved it better, if I 
had had business to mind, and objects for my af- 
fections to lay hold of. I am none the worthier 
of the life to come, for never having had a fast 
hold of the life that now is ; but quite otherwise. 
The oak that reaches nighest heaven with its top 
is deepest in the earth with its root. 

MARHAM. 

So it is ; and firmest in it. 

AUBIN. 

I know, at least I think I do, that I should have 
been now more fit for heaven than I am, if for- 
merly I had had more friends to love, more pleas- 
ures to be gay and grateful in, and more busi- 
ness to be active in. The more right things a 
man loves, the lovelier grows his soul. Neigh- 
bours, books, friends, pictures, the country, music, 
work, — whatever things are good, let a man love, 
and he will himself be the better, and so be the 
fitter for what is best. Most persons are per- 
suaded that pains assure us of there being an here- 
after ; but that pleasures do the same is what very 
few feel. Yet it is to be felt, O, so sweetly and 
strangely ! Out of his cup of pleasure, let a man 



488 EUTHANASY. 

drink only virtuous delight, and drink of it blessing 
God the while ; and it will taste like water of life ; 
and easily he will believe in there being a river of 
it, somewhere, for him to find. 

MARHAM. 

That is a right thought, Oliver. At least, I like 
it. I like the spiritualism of your philosophy, 
because it does not often break away from real- 
ities. Whatever it is you are seeing with the 
eyes of your imagination, it is out of some win- 
dow in common life that you look the while. 
You are like — like — you are like — 

ATJBIN. 

Some astronomer, that plays with his child one 
moment, and the next looks millions of miles 
away, to remark on which side of Jupiter some 
one moon is shining. Or I am like one that 
should gather common apples into a golden basket. 
But I will tell you what I think of myself. I am 
one that stands by the tree of knowledge, longing 
for what fruit is on the topmost boughs. Hours 
and hours, and for more hours, perhaps, than I 
ought, I watch those high branches ; and now and 
then, as I know, an apple falls, which I fancy 
sometimes that I find. 

MARHAM. 

Do thoughts, then, grow for you, like fruit, Oli- 
ver ? 



EUTHANASY. 489 

AUBIN. 

Ah, no, no, uncle ! Not so easily. And yet 
to me it does not feel as though my own best 
thoughts were of my own devising, but rather as 
though they were mine simply because my mind 
somehow had been open for them to come into. 
The best things I have written do not to me read 
like my own, nor like any body's else ; but like 
recollections of some bright dream, or of words 
heard in another world. But my bad thoughts are 
my own ; they feel altogether my own. And well 
they may. For when I am wicked I am so for 
myself, and while thinking of myself, and while I 
am intent on some interest of my own, some pas- 
sion of mine, some wish of mine. After some of 
my best actions, I have felt as though I had been 
possessed while doing them, divinely possessed. 
But when I have been vicious, I have been selfish 
most for myself, and even most myself, I might 
say, perhaps. Goodness is godliness, God in us. 
And wickedness is selfishness, a man's self only. 
In my best seasons I do not know that I am Oli- 
ver Aubin ; I am not any body ; I am thought, I 
am feeling. But if there is any thing wrong in 
me, it is I, Oliver Aubin, that think it ; I, Oliver 
Aubin. 

MARHAM. 

Just now you were going to say something 
about some travellers' book somewhere. 



490 EUTHANASY. 

AUBIN. 

At an inn among the Alps, in Switzerland, 
some Englishman, ill of consumption, wrote in 
the travellers' book what his feelings of wonder 
were at the sight of the glaciers ; how he is one 
who is going across the x\lps to die, and yet 

Here steals a moment from Italian sky, 
And stops and wonders on his way to die. 

Dying man as he was, he could not feel himself 
only mortal, but a man of wonder, and awe, and 
reverence, — feelings that are akin to immortality. 

MAK.HAM. 

I have read the passages Tasked you to trans- 
cribe for me, from those records of 

i AUBIN. 

How my sun went black in the sky at mid -day, 
and hung there an orb of darkness. 

MARHAM. 

You have arranged the extracts as I suggested. 
And I have found a motto for them, as you will 
see ; for I have prefixed it. 



ETTTHANASY. 491 



CHAPTER XLI. 

Hath he not always treasures, always friends, 

The good great man ? Three treasures, — Love, and Light, 

And calm Thoughts, regular as infants' hreath ; — 

And three firm friends, more sure than day and night, — 

Himself, his Maker, and the angel Death. 

Coleridge. 

Seven conclusions from a week of sad eve- 
nings : — 

Sunday. — About the hardships of life a man 
cannot murmur, and it not be against God. 

Monday. — This breath of mine is God's good 
giving ; and it is health and life in me, as I draw 
it : but in breathing it out again, so often I make 
it into sighs against the Giver of it ! I misuse 
God's air so ! Such a traitor I am this way ! 

Tuesday. — Misery, misery, O my misery ! 
So slowly time goes with it ! To-day has been 
with me like years, like a thousand years : and 
to-morrow will pass the same way as to-day ; and 
so will the day after. And it is well, is it not ? 
For these long days are making my life the longer, 
almost ages the longer. But so wretched they 
are ! Yet they are not too wretched to pray in ! 
O the feelings I have had the last few days ! 
This weary, weary season ! Nay ; but it is this 



492 EUTHANASY. 

precious, precious time ! Because of long days 
it is not for a mortal to complain, and of sorrow- 
ful ones a Christian will not. 

Wednesday. — These long, long days ! Ah, 
yes ! There may well be to me some feeling of 
length in them ; for out of their hours, myself, I 
am growing to be immortal, as I trust. 

Thursday. — This trouble of mine is God's 
loving chastisement. Do I believe this ? Yes, 
I do. Then why am I so wretched ? O, there 
is many a man, an angel now, that would take 
flesh again eagerly, for the sake of carrying this 
cross of mine. But what troubles me most is, 
not the weight of the cross, but what men may 
think of me for having it to carry. But they are 
not all my witnesses, nor indeed the chief of 
them : for there are others than they about me, a 
great cloud of them, though known of only in 
spirit. Courage, then ! I have angels looking 
on ; and I have my Father watching me : and it 
is mine to walk in life abreast with martyrs, for 
some few steps, at least. 

Friday. — O, how dreary, and friendless, and 
helpless, and useless my life is ! It is as though 
I were out in a wilderness ; so lonely, and so sad 
I am ! And indeed it is so ; and there comes the 
tempter to me. And one time he will have me 
weep, because I have not a friend to understand 
me. But I keep my tears for my sins. And 



EUTHANASY. 493 

another time he tries to embitter me, and make 
me say that vanity of vanities, life is vanity. But 
I answer him, that goodness is not vanity, nor is 
dying for goodness a vanity ; and that I long for 
the one, and am ready for the other. Nay, thou 
tempter ! It is by thy coming to me that I know 
myself. Yes, like Jesus, I too am a soul, I am 
a spirit for ever. But I have thee to resist, Devil. 
Thou art one thing to one man, and another to 
another ; and to wicked and unbelieving souls, 
hereafter, thou wilt be strange things, unknown of 
yet. But to me, just this day, thou art poverty. 
But I will not be daunted by thee so. I can 
overcome thee, and I will. For I know of a 
way, through having nothing to possess all things. 
Courage, my soul ! Be patient and full of faith. 
Resist the adversary as poverty, and thou wilt 
overcome him for this life and for ever. For in 
a godly way, overcoming him in one shape, thou 
art conquering him in every other form, as wine, 
as a harlot, as pride, as a mob, as a tyrant, and as 
despair. 

Saturday. — I am overcoming the world itself, 
by outgrowing the love of it. As a poor man, if 
I keep free in spirit, and cheerful, then I am get- 
ting gold, and silver, and dignities, and thrones 
beneath my feet ; and I am growing up to the 
level of principalities and powers in heaven. 



494 EUTHANASY. 



CHAPTER XLII. 

Ah, yes ! the hour is come 
When thou must hasten home, 

Pure soul ! to Him who calls. 
The God who gave thee breath 
Walks by the side of Death, 

And naught that step appalls. 

Health has forsaken thee ; 
Hope says thou soon shalt be 

Where happier spirits dwell, 
There where one loving word 
Alone is never heard, — 

That loving word, farewell. 

W. S. Landor. 

AUBIN. 

Water, uncle ! a glass of water ! Thank you. 

MARHAM. 

Are you very much worse, Oliver ? 

AUBIN. 

Only for a minute or two ; not for more, per- 
haps. O pain, pain, pain ! O the people I 
think of now ! What was the sacrament of 
blood ? Was it not when persons mingled their 
blood in one cup, and then drank of it, all of 
them ? Always, till this moment, it has seemed 
to me a fantastical proceeding ; but it does not 
now ; for I think I feel now what the first users 
of it meant, though I do not know. O, pain is a 



EUTHANASY. 495 

strange brotherhood among men ! No, uncle, 
no ! you cannot do any thing for me. But do not 
leave me. O, it is as though flash after flash of 
the lightning of God were going through me ! 
Dreadful, dreadful, very dreadful ! And it is 
awful, and it is sublime ! For the agonies, as 
they go, say, " Not in vain have we been through 
you ; not in vain." And the spirit within cannot 
but believe. It is as though there were a great 
mystery growing up between me and God, for 
explanation some time. Just now, my feeling of 
endurance is very strange ; it. is so strange that I 
would not but know it, very dreadful as the pain 
is. It is as though I am being afflicted because 
Gc;d cannot help it. You would think this must 
be wretched despair ; but it is not. God cannot 
spare me. Do thy will, do thy divine will, do 
thy will upon me, O God ! God pity me ! Yes, 
I know the Lord does pity me. In the mind of 
God there is pity for me. Yes, God wishes me 
to bear, is anxious for it, — he, the Father of 
spirits. O, then I will ! and I am strong to do it 
triumphantly. 

MAKE AM. 

Think of what Jesus Christ must have suffered 
on the cross. 

AUBIN. 

Yes, dear uncle, it is in the spirit of that cruci- 
fixion that I feel as I do. I know myself to be in 



496 EUTHANASY. 

no torture-house, but in the latter agonies of an 
immortal birth. And this is the faith of my soul, 
through Him, the buried and the risen, the cruci- 
fied and the ascended. Thy spirit, thy spirit, O 
Christ ! is my strength, my hope, my oneness 
with God. For in thy mind there was wrestled 
out the victory of those thoughts that come to me 
so gloriously. Glory to thee, who art the light 
of my light, and the victoriousness of my victory 
in this world ! 

MARHAM. 

Glory, glory to him ! 

AUBIN. 

It is an odd thing for me to be thinking just 
now, is not it ? But I am persuaded that % the 
highest consecration of marriage is in the joint en- 
durance of suffering by husband and wife. 

MARHAM. 

Yes, in pain our hearts soften towards one 
another. 

AUBIN. 

And more than that, our spirits are sublimed. 

MARHAM. 

Does not talking weaken you, Oliver ? 

AUBIN. 

No ; it is a little relief from pain, uncle. O 
pain, pain ! I love all men more tenderly for 
suffering with them. And Jesus, — he is my 
Savicur, by the form of God he is in, by his wis- 



EUTHANASY. 497 

dom and power ; but it is by his crown of thorns 
he is my brother ; and it is by his suffering with 
me, that I have the feeling of God's being my 
Father. 

MARHAM. 

Yes, Oliver, you know that suffering is the will 
of God ; and that without it even the Captain of 
our salvation could not have been made perfect. 
It is what we are all born to ; and some of the 
best of us to the most of it. 

AUBIN. 

My thoughts are in hospitals, where men lie in 
agony ; and at sea, where men drown ; and in 
Austrian prisons, where patriots rot away their 
lives ; and in what were the dungeons of the In- 
quisition ; and in what was the Roman circus ; and 
by bedsides, where young husbands and wives are 
parting ; and in places where the tender-hearted 
are helplessly wronged. And to all this, — to this 
suffering from one another, and from the elements, 
and from disease, and from death, — we men have 
been made subject, though not willingly. O, no ! 
O God, no ! But thou art thyself the reason of 
it ; and thou hast done it in hope. And it is 
bondage that ennobles us by our passing through 
it ; for so we come to the glorious liberty of thy 
children. 

MARHAM. 

You are easier now, I hope, Oliver. 
32 



498 ETJTHANASY. 

ATJBIX. 

O, yes ! it is subsiding, the pain is. But I am 
much better than yesterday, and in a day or two I 
shall be nearly well again. 

MARHAM. 

What book is that behind your pillow ? It 
makes you smile. 

ATTBIN. 

It is Martin Luther's Table-Talk. And I 
was thinking of what Luther said one August 
afternoon, when he and his Catharine lay ill of a 
fever: — "God hath touched me sorely, and I 
have been impatient. But God knoweth better 
than we ourselves whereto it serveth. Our Lord 
God doth like a printer, who setteth the letters 
backwards : we see and feel well his setting, but 
we shall see the print yonder, in the life to come. 
In the mean time we must have patience." It is 
quaintly but very well said ; is it not ? 

MARHA3I. 

Yes, it is. 

ATTBIN. 

Great sufferers in this world are not very rare, 
and so are no wonder to us ; but our human mis- 
eries are mysteries to the angels, and things they 
desire to look into. How the more ancient sons 
of God had their birth, there is no knowing. But 
some of them, perhaps, grew up to their high 
estate slowly, and surely, and unerringly, and like 



EUTHANASY. 499 

the full moon, when she rises from behind a 
grove, and goes up the sky, in a quiet night. O, 
to some of them, what a sight, what an awe, 
must be the growth of a soul in this world ! 
There are some of the sons of God, of an age 
with the morning stars, and older, perhaps ; and 
their growth was, for the time of it, like the shap- 
ing of our earth. But the lifetime of a man is 
only a small part of the duration of an oak, an 
olive, or a cedar-tree. And what some spirits 
have been ages growing up to, man has to achieve 
in a few years 

MARHAM. 

Yes, but not unhelped ; and to begin with, 
made but little lower than the angels, but still a 
wonder to them, and a mystery, on account of his 
different creation. 

ATJBIN. 

And what a strange appearance he must be in 
their spiritual eyes ! — free, most free, and yet, 
invisibly to himself, hung about with the chains of 
necessity ; with the hand of God always offered 
him, and yet with the thunder of God bursting 
upon him from time to time, out of the gathered 
clouds of adversity ; most mortal, and most cer- 
tainly immortal ; a creature of a will, now fleshly, 
now spiritual, and now at last the same with the 
will of God. But, O, it is a good man suffering 
must be the wonder of many a heavenly dweller ; 



500 ETTTHANASY. 

he having himself been formed through another 
discipline than that of endurance, perhaps. And 
when he hears of earthly agony, he cannot but 
learn it calmly and cheerfully, and therefore also 
with holy wonder, as to why this lower creation 
has been made to groan and travail in pain togeth- 
er. O, there are heavenly spirits, to whom the 
knowledge of our righteous sufferers must be 
more prophetic of creative newness than a voice 
would be, if heard calling down the depths of 
infinity, to let new worlds be started. Yes, 
Paul, yes ! Thy Lord and Master, and mine, — 
if we suffer with him, we shall be also glorified 
together. 



EUTHANASY. 501 



CHAPTER XLIII. 

Ah ! happy spirits that behold 

The King in love divine, 
And see, beneath your floor of gold 

The stars and planets shine ; 
The dim abysses of the air, 
And earth's green orb revolving there. 

Each hath his proper meed above 

For actions nobly done ; 
But love that can another love 

Makes ever that her own ; 
Each hath his own peculiar good, 
But shared by the whole brotherhood. 

Peter Damianus. 

MAKHAM. 

The righteous will differ from one another in 
glory, as the stars do. This we know. Now 
may not this imply that they will be in separate 
places, — in regions, some more and some less 
happy ? 

ATTBIN. 

I do not think it does. To every one the 
spiritual world will be according to what his spir- 
it is. 

MARHAM. 

I do not understand you, Oliver. 

AUBIN. 

Is this earth the same thing to all us earthly 



502 EUTHAXASY. 

dwellers ? Is not it one thing to one man, and 
another to another, and a third thing to a third 
man ? Is not it thousand-fold and million-fold ? 
To one beholder, the earth is a daily revelation 
of God ; while another man is so mere a mer- 
chant, that the earth is to him the wide floor of 
a place of exchange ; and the firmament is only 
the high roof of it. There are gluttons, to whom 
the world is only a fish-pond, a poultry-yard, a 
stall for fattening cattle in, and a kitchen garden ; 
and to these men, the seasons, as they change, 
suggest only thoughts of what fresh dishes may 
be had. There are wretched persons in London, 
to whom the world is simply a place for street- 
crossings to be swept in. One man is only a 
farmer, and only more cunning than one of his 
oxen ; while another is a poet, as well as a far- 
mer ; and another is a father, as well as being 
a poet and a farmer ; now these three persons 
see the world in very different lights. On ac- 
count of his health, one man as he walks the 
earth feels it under him like the floor of an ever- 
lasting home ; and another, because he is ill, 
stands on it like a gravestone ; while anoth- 
er, who is hopeful as well as dying, feels the 
earth under him like a broad stepping-stone to 
heaven. 

MAEHAM. 

For the dissatisfied man, all life is unsatisfac- 



EUTHANASY. 503 

tory ; and for one that is contented, the world is 
full of comforts. 

AUBIN. 

Yes, and, for the cheerful man, even the east- 
erly wind is musical in the window-crevices, and 
it makes solemn anthems for him in the woods. 

MARHAM. 

So it does. And, to a great extent, life is 
what we think it. 

AUBIN. 

Day and night, and every moment, there are 
voices about us. All the hours speak, as they 
pass ; and in every event there is a message to 
us ; and all our circumstances talk with us ; but 
it is in divine language, that worldliness misunder- 
stands, that selfishness is frightened at, and that 
only the children of God hear rightly and hap- 
pily. 

MARHAM. 

True, Oliver, true ! 

AUBIN. 

It is many things to its many dwellers ; this 
world is. It is a home ; it is a workshop ; it is 
a place of amusement ; it is a school, with trouble 
and pain for chief teachers in ; and for the de- 
vout, it is a church to worship in ; and for them 
that have eyes to see, it is the wisdom, and the 
beauty, and the love of God. 

MARHAM. 

So it is. 



504 EUTHANASY. 

AUBIN. 

So, then, if this world is to us what we think 
it, the next may be to us just what we are fit 
for, perhaps. And there may be a thousand of 
us stand together in heaven, and every one of 
us with a different degree of glorious feeling. 

MARHAM. 

But we shall all be in sight of God. 

ATJBIN. 

But not all in the same full sight. For now do 
we all feel God about us the same ? No. And 
so in heaven, there may be one eternal look of 
blessing on us all, and we all feel it, but not alike. 

MARHAM. 

One disciple will be a ruler over ten cities, and 
another over five. This rule of cities is not to 
be understood literally, of course ; and you think 
it is figurative, when heaven is spoken of as more 
than one city. 

AUBIN. 

Perhaps it is. In the Revelation, heaven is 
said to be only one city, — the New Jerusalem. 

MARHAM. 

So it is, and in a passage not incidentally, but 
purposely, descriptive of heaven. 

AUBIX. 

There is no reason why we should not expect 
men more and less rewarded, men of many and 
few talents, to be together hereafter. According 



EUTHANASY. 505 

to our worthiness of heaven will be our enjoy- 
ment of it. This earth is only an occupancy of 
some seventy years for us, and the round of it is 
only some few thousand miles, yet it is a differ- 
ent world to every man of many millions in it ; so 
that the kingdom of heaven may well be a differ- 
ent place to every one of its gainers, for it is in- 
finite and eternal. It will be, — yes ! heaven will 
be what we feel it, what we are ready to feel. 
And our feelings are much in our own making. I 
cannot will my head to be a storehouse of knowl- 
edge ; but my heart I can make the issue of 
what life I please, — holy, most holy, loving, and 
hopeful, if I choose. 

MARHAM. 

Yes, and much wisdom comes of loving ; 
though a man may know largely, and love nothing. 

AUBIN. 

For admission into heaven, God asks of us 
nothing impossible. We have a law to keep, — 
his law. True, we are creatures of frailty, and 
yesterday, and the dust, while he is God most 
high. But it is not knowledge, nor the perfec- 
tion of service, but it is love, that is the fulfilling 
of the law, — the love of the law, for what of 
God's is in it, — the love of God, for his god- 
head's sake, — and the love of man, for what 
good is in him, or, if not in him yet, for what will 
be. We cannot all of us be knowing, nor can 



506 EUTHANASY. 

any of us know very much, but we can love, and 
as though infinitely. 

MARHAM. 

Faith, hope, and love, these three, but the 
greatest of these is love. 

ATTEIN. 

The greatest ! Yes, it is. And in that there 
is all comfort for them that hope to meet again. 
Love ! why should we doubt but it will have its 
objects ? for that faith will have its, we are sure ; 
and love is greater than faith. O, if there is a 
heaven for our faith, there are friends in it for 
our love. I have known those who have grown 
holy through thoughts of the dead. I have 
known one who, as he prayed, always felt, as it 
were, the presence of a spirit about him, — one of 
the blessed vanished. And it was in her spirit 
he prayed, and was earnest in prayer. Another 
person I have known, to whom the meeting of 
her husband was all of heaven, beside God ; for 
he had been the husband of her soul, as well as 
her youth, and they had suffered much together, 
but she much more by herself. We are saved 
by hope, and some of us by the special hope of 
being with our friends again. So that if there is 
salvation by hope, our friends whom we so hope 
for we shall certainly have again. 

MARHAM. 

We are not to sorrow for the dead as those 



EUTHANASY. 507 

that have no hope ; now this implies our know- 
ing our friends hereafter ; because our grief is 
for their having been taken from us, and not for 
their having been taken into happiness. 

AUBIN. 

To know our dear friends again is not a fan- 
tastical nor an unreasonable wish ; it is a hope 
that is quite rational, and altogether natural to us, 
as loving and thinking and immortal souls. Our 
nature is not our own making, but God's. Our 
souls are made so as to long and hope for sight of 
the lost ; and so naturally do they do so, that it 
is as though God made them do it. So I can- 
not doubt our having our friends again. 

BIARHAM. 

Nor I ; for that we shall be with them hereafter 
is often implied in Scripture, though not so often 
said. But is reunion with our friends so certain 
as you think, or only as a hope of the soul ? 

AUBIN. 

Yes, uncle, it is, as long as God is God, or 
till we see creatures falsely made, and in the 
fields, the woods, and all over the world, thirsting 
and in agony for a liquid that does not exist, and 
never will. God would never have let us long for 
our friends with such a strong and holy love, if 
they were not waiting for us. They would never 
be all heaven to so many of us, if their dear faces 
were not as sure as heaven. 



•# 



508 EUTHANASY. 

MARHAM. 

So one would think, and perhaps not without 
great reason. 

ATJBIN. 

This universe is no falsehood ; for we have not 
found it so,, but a truth ; so we will not distrust 
those purer wishes, which, indeed, are prompt- 
ings of our nature. We long to see and know our 
dear friends in the next life ; and so we shall have 
them. And we ought not to fear otherwise ; for 
we ought to believe better of God than to do that. 
But suppose it ; the friends I have had, I am 
never to know again ; so it is God's will, — his 
blessed will, — the will one prays may be done. 
That Divine will is better than my wish ; it is 
many times, a thousand times, an infinity, better. 
Why, now, as soon as I say heartily, " Thy will 
be done in this," at once I feel it will be done, 
the way of my heart. I cannot claim to know 
my lost friends in the next world, nor can I tell 
how I am to know them ; but as soon as I trust 
in God to let me know them, if it be his good 
will, then I do not doubt, and I am sure of their 
company. O the peace it is to trust in God ! 
Sometimes, uncle, I think I will never reason 
about the future at all, but only pray God his will 
may be done. 

MARHAM. 

This is All Souls' Day, Oliver. It is not 






ETTTHANASY. 509 

much kept now, nor hardly remembered, any- 
where, I think. But when I was a boy, the chil- 
dren used to go about repeating two or three 
verses at people's doors. 

AUBIN. 

They are the souls that have been in this world, 
and that are now out of it, that are the strength 
of our faith in the world to come. 

MARHAM. 

You mean, it is their waiting us in the next 
world that makes it less shadowy, and more real. 

AUBIN. 

Yes, uncle. And there are some greater souls, 
the very thought of whom is an increase of faith. 
Men depart this world, many of them having 
cheated it, and nearly all of them owing it largely. 
But now and then dies one who has made the 
world his debtor, and the ages of the world his 
witnesses. Such a man, there is no doubting, is 
entered into the joy of his Lord, and into a rule 
like that over many cities. Joy to him, and 
thanks ! Ay, many thanks ! For his is a high 
estate of reward ; and by our being kindred to 
him in soul, however distantly, we feel certain of 
some happiness, though lower than his, much 
lower, perhaps. O Pascal ! thou wert pure in 
heart in this world, and now thou art in full sight 
of God. This I feel ; and by this feeling I am 
bold to trust that every one, who has lived at all 



510 EUTHANASY. 

akin to thy purity, will be purified, so as at last to 
be of kin with thee in happiness. O John Mil- 
ton ! thou art among the angels and the seraphs, 
that were once thy glorious song ; and this world 
is dear to them, for what thou thyself wert in it. 
O, how sublimely dost thou move in heaven, the 
love of saints and heroes, and spirits multitudi- 
nous ! And I, — I feel as though it were impos- 
sible for me to be shut out of heaven for ever and 
utterly, even if it were only for the sake of the 
dear language common to us both. 

MARHAM. 

There i^ right feeling in what you have been 
saying. But I am not sure 

«ATJBIN. 

Of my theology, uncle ? But I am myself cer- 
tain of its soundness. And what is my certainty ? 
The spirit of God. For it testifies within me, 
that my love of the good and the great is predes- 
tination to their company, earlier or later. 

MARHAM. 

The love of the best and greatest is. 

ATTBIN. 

You mean God. 

MARHAM. 

Yes, and I mean also the first-born of us 
creatures. 

ATTBIN. 

Who wore our nature among the Jews so 



ETTTHANASY. 511 

grandly, so like a king and a servant both ; and 
whose heart never changed from what it was in 
the littleness of childhood, while out of his manly 
mouth proceeded gracious words to be wondered 
at, — a son of man in his birth, but in his death 
the Son of God, — Jesus Christ, through whose 
life as a man humanity itself has grown divine. 
Through his spirit in my spirit does my spirit feel 
itself in God. And so glory to him, over angels 
and seraphs, and in his exaltation above princi- 
palities and powers ! Glory to the first-born of 
us brethren ! Glory to him, in the bosom of the 
Father ! And because he is there,, and I know 
it, I am myself strong to trust that I shall see it. 
" Listen, listen ! " says my heart within me. 
And, Q, like words out of heaven sounds what is 
wish and promise both, — " Grace be with all 
them that love our Lord Jesus Christ in sincer- 
ity." And it is with them ; and the love of 
Christ will be the sight of him. 



THE END. 



3477 



